


SASO BR3 Dump

by stephanericher



Series: SASO 17 [17]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fivesome - M/M/M/M/M, Gen, M/M, Other, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-01-31 20:51:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 124
Words: 53,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12690021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: all the relatively sfw, knb-related stuff i wrote for saso br3





	1. aokuro, drake

“Aomine-kun,” Tetsu says, graceful nod of his head, severing Aomine’s heart in two.  
  
Aomine nods back, glancing away and blinking hard (at the lights, okay). So they’re back to formalities, Tetsu’s polite and guarded distance, all teeth and dogs snapping in front of the gates. So it’s like he’s erased years and years of growth, hacked off their intertwined branches with a knife so that only Aomine’s bleeding tree sap. It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, physical distance and the whole playing-in-different-conferences thing, dealing with the grind of playing in the NBA and not having to deal with their own shit.  
  
They still have to deal with it, but it’s harder alone. Aomine sighs, messing up his hair, and he flags down the waiter. He turns back but Tetsu’s gone, vanished into the crowd like he’d never been there. Probably to find his date, Aomine would say to himself, burning more bitter than the straight liquor he’s going to try and down without coughing, but Tetsu never would have left his date in the first place. He’s always a gentleman, always hiding behind the veneer of being considerate, and maybe Aomine should have ordered a double.   
  
He tries to down all the rum but makes it halfway, grimacing at the taste (the fancy bartender isn’t looking, thank God; he’s dealing with some rookies at the other end and explaining that yes he knows who they are and this is a league event so he’s not about to serve anyone underage). Aomine winces; maybe if the liquor had lit his mouth on literal fire he’d be able to get out of here with good justification. Maybe it wouldn’t be seen as the coward’s way, the way he wants to crush the glass in his fingertips and scream in pain when the shards cut into his fingers (too valuable for basketball, he thinks).  
  
Tetsu is talking to a woman, some assistant coach for one of the California teams; her bright lipstick shows her smile all the way across the room, her brown curls bouncing as she tosses her head and laughs. Aomine pours the rest of the rum down his throat, eyes closed, focusing on the burn, the way his body’s protesting something physical, something he can blame.   
  
Tetsu won’t come back over; he probably won’t be that cruel. Aomine checks his watch; it’s still too early to go. The bartender’s still arguing with the rookies; Tetsu and the woman are nowhere to be seen. Daiki’s head hurts.


	2. aokaga rivalry

They don’t even need words for this anymore. They used to settle there, shouted exchanges, brags and promises to annihilate each other, sweet whispers turned sharp with the reminder that this is where this had started, the promise of meeting each other in the middle of the court (it is not, as Kuroko likes to romanticize, what has carried their relationship through; it’s long since spread out like the roots of a plant, holding onto other things; it is nowhere near incidental but it is not the only thing). But it dominates, electric, from when they part before the game, Aomine tweaking Kagami’s zipper outside the locker room and Aomine raising his arm to block Aomine out of the doorway and impose his broader shoulders but then he hears a flashbulb, some lone-wolf sports paparazzo. They can’t catch a fucking break.  
  
Aomine waves; Kagami is above sighing while he watches him retreat. He cracks his knuckles, shoots a glare at the photographer, and disappears into the Bulls’ locker room. There’s a game to play; there are hundreds of flashbulbs to track their every move, every one irrelevant as the last. Because, really, none of that’s ever relevant, but specifically to this, the excitement of settling their score once again, the rivalry that twists around their relationship like a glass stem (different than Kagami’s rivalry with Tatsuya, with Midorima, with Kise, each of them incomparable to the others in the first place). It’s different than their one-on-ones, than international games; it’s the conference and the division and the two of them on opposite sides of a gap.   
  
It’s the sweet way that Aomine kisses Kagami sometimes that makes him want to dunk on Aomine so bad if he ever lets him break the kiss. And, well, Aomine had given him one of those earlier, so it’s time to fucking throw down some jams, early or no.  
  
“You look pretty fucking ready,” says one of his teammates, and Kagami grins.  
  
“It’s because I am.”  
  
“Don’t wear yourself down in the first quarter.”  
  
(As if. As if he’d waste his reserves here.)  
  
Kagami waits on the other side of the tipoff; Aomine cocks his head and Kagami grins back as him, as if to ask him if he dares. Aomine doesn’t answer, verbally or no, but when he dribbles down the court, blowing past Kagami before he can even set, and tosses in a three underhanded, Kagami’s already there to take the pass out. He doesn’t need to wait for Aomine to meet him under the hoop, and dunking in his face is just as glorious as it always will be.


	3. aokise, past aoima

“Just give it up,” says Susa, leaning over the back of the bench.   
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Imayoshi, shoveling another piece of chicken from his bento into his mouth.   
  
Susa shrugs and plucks a pickled radish out of the bento; the sound it makes between his teeth is irritating. Imayoshi can’t hear Aomine’s phone call over it, and Susa probably knows what he’s doing. He’s still looking at Imayoshi like he knows what’s best, and Imayoshi leans back, closing the bento.  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Aomine’s voice floats over.  
  
“Stop,” says Susa.  
  
“We can reschedule. I know you work, Babe. Yeah, yeah, better be your treat.”  
  
There’s a softness in Aomine’s voice, not in how it’s blurred by the breeze but in the tone, the cadence of his words, that was never there when he’d say enough of the same words to Imayoshi. It had always been hard, brusque, very little give no matter how Imayoshi tried pushing at the pressure points. He had slipped away, like a fish through Imayoshi’s fingers, their streams branching off after basketball.  
  
-  
  
Imayoshi’s not spying; he’s merely visiting his favorite kouhai, Wakamatsu. That’s what he says, anyway, handing out advice he knows Wakamatsu will get mad at now but take later (and Imayoshi gets not wanting to be upstaged but Wakamatsu makes it easy sometimes, easy to poke into a rage, which is fine because he’s actually competent). He ends up sitting on the bleachers, tie half-undone, trying to bum a cigarette from Harasawa for a bit.  
  
Aomine’s boyfriend shows up afterward, leaning against the wall, waving at Imayoshi like he knows him with the same glass-mask smile he shows in magazines. Imayoshi smiles back; keep your enemies closer and all that.  
  
Aomine teases Kise, but throws his arm around him; he asks him quietly how his leg is doing, caring more in a sentence than he had in their whole relationship about Imayoshi. It’s like watching yourself get into a car wreck on the highway from above; Imayoshi can’t look away but he can’t not feel it, either. Maybe his smile’s turning bitter and he’s giving himself away; Aomine is certainly looking at him like he expects Imayoshi to try something, and Imayoshi can’t say he’s not glad Aomine’s paying attention to him instead of Kise right now. He waves to them at the gate, turning before he can hear whatever negative remark Aomine’s going to make about him to Kise. Imayoshi’s not that much of a masochist.


	4. nijihai, deepening

Haizaki’s not stupid or corny to say shit like how this must be a dream or a fairytale, that this is unreal, that Nijimura’s his fucking dream boy. It does have a little bit of a surreal feeling to it, this thing between them, but why is that ever considered a good thing? There’s a reason they call it falling for someone, and Haizaki’s been in enough fights to know that when you fall your head’s going to hit the pavement eventually and it’s going to hurt like a motherfucker.   
  
And that’s what’s going to happen with this, too, eventually. It’s not a thing he can just enjoy; he’s just waiting for the bomb to go off, every night Nijimura gets home late ending with him trying to make his leg stop shaking against the table, anticipation drumming his belly from the inside. This is it; he’s disgusted; he’s found someone better or he’d decided he’d rather be alone than with Haizaki. So when’s it going to be?  
  
He always ends up home, with an apology and some of his extra tips from work stuck in the change jar, his phone in the charger on Haizaki’s side of the bed, wearing one of Haizaki’s old shirts that’s just a little too big for him, standing on those weird-looking knobby toes of his to kiss Haizaki’s mouth.  
  
“Cheer up,” he’ll say, nudging Haizaki in the side (forehead flicks are reserved for the dumb kids at his work and his younger siblings now, and it’s not like Haizaki wants one--but).  
  
Nijimura catches him one night, tearing at the edges of the newspapers, shredding the perforated ends between his nails, sitting on his restless leg, jaw too clenched to pretend it’s been loose.  
  
“What’s this all about?” Nijimura says, sitting next to him on the couch.  
  
He doesn’t say he’ll wait or get snippy; he puts his hand, calloused and scarred, on Haizaki’s knee, staring off into space the way he does, and it’s an awful feeling in Haizaki’s chest, like Nijimura’s extending this trust Haizaki doesn’t extend back (they know which one of them’s more trustworthy).   
  
“When are you—?” Haizaki waves a hand. “You know. Am I going to know when you’ve had enough of me?”  
  
He bites those last words, bitter on his tongue; Nijimura’s eyebrows fly up and he scoots closer.   
  
“I hope that never happens,” he says.  
  
“It will,” says Haizaki.   
  
“You’ll see it coming if it does,” says Nijimura. “But as long as you’re not tired of me, I’m in this.”  
  
His eyes are serious, his other hand reaching for Haizaki’s before Haizaki can jerk it away, but even when he tries his body won’t let him.   
  
“I hope you know what you just signed up for,” Haizaki says.  
  
“I think I do,” says Nijimura, leaning in to kiss him.


	5. aokise, stupid

  
Kise will admit, sometimes, that he’s so stupid for Aomine. Aomine, on the other hand, is stupid, period. He’ll make rash, impulsive decisions (which Kise isn’t immune to, but still) and then expect no consequences, jump away laughing from the explosion as the back of his shirt gets seared but his skin stays intact. And sometimes it’s amusing; sometimes Kise’s right there with him. Sometimes Aomine gets himself suspended right before the only game they have against each other all season, and Kise is, quite simply put, not amused.  
  
“No, you can’t come over,” Kise says, as if speaking more forcefully over the phone has much power. “I’m not letting you in. We get one game a year, maybe two, and you just have to get a technical—”  
  
“I wasn’t thinking!”  
  
“Obviously,” says Kise.   
  
(And, in the heat of the moment, he can’t expect Aomine to think of him; he’s not that much of a narcissist and he knows he occupies a pretty big piece of Aomine’s mind. But some consideration, some thought that perhaps he shouldn’t argue this call because his next game is the only one against his boyfriend until maybe the finals is like Aomine had just carelessly tossed aside something they’d both been looking forward to.)  
  
“Look, we don’t get to have that together, so at least can we have this?”  
  
“No,” says Kise.  
  
And he’s being a petty asshole about it, but Aomine was the petty asshole who’d gotten them into this first.  
  
-  
  
They don’t talk during the game, but Aomine follows Kise to his car and Kise lets him get in.  
  
“I’m still mad, you know,” he says, turning the key in the ignition.  
  
He keeps both hands on the wheel the whole time, and Aomine, finally aware of the thin surface he’s walking on, doesn’t try to turn on the radio or put a hand on Kise’s knee (though, maybe, Kise thinks, he might have let him; the empty space just isn’t as comfortable).  
  
“I’m sorry,” Aomine says, before Kise turns off the car. “I was dumb, and I didn’t think about it, and I wasted a huge opportunity, and goddamn it I really wanted to be out there on the floor against you.”  
  
(Oh, does Kise know that.) “I accept. That’s all I wanted.”  
  
“Really?” says Aomine.  
  
Kise looks at him, the idiot; of course he’d wanted Aomine on the floor the rest of the game (the rest of the Cavs aren’t scrubs but they’re a very far cry from Aomine in many ways).   
  
“You are so stupid,” Kise murmurs as he leans over the gearshift to kiss him.


	6. momoriko, cigarette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smoking cw

Riko looks good with a cigarette between her teeth, the smell of the smoke mixing with the notes of the chocolate and vanilla like ice cream in her perfume, almost oddly whimsical for someone so grounded. But Satsuki does not feel grounded right now, the smoke off the end of Riko’s cigarette drifting into the air and thinning out until it fades. Her skirt is short; she’s small but there’s plenty of leg on the chair that Satsuki could lean over and touch, her skin like a low fruit, almost ripe, tantalizing.  
  
She knows she’s doing it; she adjusts her position and the skirt creeps up and Satsuki wants to lean over and kiss her, pull the cigarette out of her mouth and give it something more interesting, more her to focus on. She wants to touch; she wants to have five arms so she can put some on Riko’s legs and some in her hair.   
  
It’s not like Riko’s not eyeing her, the blouse that’s not quite low-cut but looks like it thanks to being made for someone considerably less well-endowed, the way her tight jeans hug her legs, the straps on her sandals crossing over her feet, the way her hair spills all over her shoulders and arms, the phone in her hands. Satsuki knows she looks good; it’s not much of a secret she’d dressed up for Riko.  
  
But still, they do this dance, the two of them talking about nothing or not at all, staring at the city around them until their coffee’s gone cold and Satsuki’s almost stopped thinking about the light lipstick stains on the rim of Riko’s cup. They get closer and closer to the fire and they never burn, and Satsuki’s so fucking sick of it.   
  
Riko crushes the cigarette under the heel of her boot, preoccupied with killing the burning ashes, and Satsuki scoots closer. Riko’s gaze turns upward sharply, but she can’t evade, can’t control, as Satsuki moves in, one hand on Riko’s bare thigh and the other cupping her chin.   
  
She tastes like the smoke of her cigarette, flavored with nothing but pure tobacco, nothing to mask it. Her tongue is soft; her lipstick pulls Satsuki’s lips closer like a magnet and there’s going to be a rim of pink around Satsuki’s lips a few shades darker than her eyes when she pulls back. She’ll wear it like a badge of honor.


	7. aokise, pining

“Hey, Kise, you seeing anyone?” Aomine says, leaning back in his chair.  
  
There’s teriyaki sauce on his chin and sweat stains on his t-shirt and he’s still attractive somehow. Kise shrugs, flicking his finger against the paper on his tray.   
  
“No one good enough?” says Aomine.  
  
Kise rolls his eyes at that. “There’s just no one I’m interested in; that’s all.”  
  
Bigger lies, more precious illusions, have fallen from his lips before, but Kise can’t think of what they were right now. Aomine squints at him, as if trying to call him, but Kise knows he’s safe. Aomine will probably start talking about his many admirers, fangirls and their ilk, or someone from the industry (he always says it in implied air quotes, as if Kise’s being pretentious when he calls it that, but that’s just the way he thinks after this long).   
  
“There’s always someone,” says Aomine.   
  
“Then who is it for you?” says Kise.  
  
“Mai-chan,” says Aomine, promptly, and Kise balls up his straw wrapper, flicking his straw wrapper across the table and hitting Aomine in the chin.  
  
“Ow, my beautiful face.”  
  
“There’s sauce on it.”  
  
“Fuck.”  
  
Aomine wipes with his already-dirty napkin; it’s so gross and it does nothing to make Kise stop thinking he’s cute, stop wanting him. He wants to hold that hand and kiss that mouth even though he thinks teriyaki’s too sweet; he wants the kind of attention Aomine’s serious about (he has that capacity, had that whole-heartedly toward basketball once, and Kise had wanted to steal it away even then).   
  
“Did I get it?”  
  
Kise contemplates saying no, but nods. Aomine pulls out his phone to double-check, and Kise leans back. He wants to kick Aomine under the table, but that’s too much like footsie (makes him want to do it more, but he’s got more fucking subtlety than that if he were really going to go after Aomine, if there was really a chance in hell Aomine would ever get out of that same old image he has of Kise as a potential love interest, i.e. not one).  
  
“You want to go look at sneakers?” Aomine says, scraping his chair back loudly as he stands up.  
  
Kise almost shakes his head (looking at Aomine talking shit about the ugly shoes, eyes catching in wonder on the new Nikes--is he going to do this to himself?) but. If this is as much as he gets, he’s not going to throw that away.  
  
“Sure.”


	8. akamido, reunion

There is no way to say it without saying it, no way for Midorima to say he wants to get closer again without implying something else. Maybe it’s because he means all of the implications; he’s not one for withholding information and Akashi’s not one whose eyes will gloss over it or ignore what’s not made explicit. It has always been that way with them; a long time ago it was easier, and Midorima would like to think it could be in the future.  
  
The problem is with right now, the crumbled stone beneath the feet of their relationship, the light of finding that comfort again visible but out of reach; there’s no clear way to get to it from the bottom where they stand, separate. But Midorima gives himself away too easily, or maybe Akashi feels the same, because he’s the one who calls first.  
  
“I want to see you,” he says, as if it’s as simple as that.  
  
And, since it’s Akashi, maybe it is; he can get to Tokyo for the weekend regardless of all of his obligations (a family house, the student council, basketball, the rest of his life) keeping him in Kyoto. He shows up on Saturday afternoon as the hand on Midorima’s watch turns, hand raised in a wave; Midorima’s hand raises in response on its own.   
  
Midorima’s still thinking about what he’d said, the directness, Akashi wanting to see Midorima and wanting him to know. He’s always deliberate; with him it always means something precise, the needle on the sewing machine sticking straight down onto the seam. Midorima’s still thinking about it, but he’s also thinking about the way Akashi’s eyes lower to his teacup, the way his bangs have grown up, his voice as he talks about the professional shogi circuit and the goings-on in Kyoto.  
  
“Do you ever miss Tokyo?” Midorima says, and that’s a little bit too close to asking something else; he takes a quick sip of his coffee to cover up what else he might blurt out.  
  
Akashi nods. “Some things in particular.”  
  
He looks straight at Midorima, and Midorima swallows down air.  
  
“But I’ll be back; we’re nearly halfway through high school already.”  
  
(That’s true, but it seems like no time at all, not at all like the endless time they’d had in middle school, the two of them at practice or in a classroom or walking to a game, different strides evening out to match each other.)  
  
There are mere centimeters between Akashi’s left hand and Midorima’s right, small fingers and larger ones, matching manicured nails. Midorima looks, and then he looks at Akashi looking, and then Akashi’s fingers slide closer; Midorima can feel their heat.  
  
“This has been a wonderful afternoon,” says Akashi. “Thank you, Midorima.”  
  
His voice is warm, like it’s absorbed some of the tea into it, and Midorima knows it’s his move, his check to answer. He slides his fingers in between Akashi’s, and Akashi smiles.


	9. kisehimu, let me in

Kise knows how easy it is to hide behind a pretty face, a laugh or a smile that isn’t quite so real but enchanting anyway. He knows sleight of hand, sleight of voice; he knows all of Himuro’s tricks and yet, there are parts of him that Kise can’t see through no matter how much Kise turns up the charm and tries to needle them out of him. It’s vexing; Kise’s not patient and he’s not used to dealing with people resisting more than a token amount. But then, if he knows how Himuro operates it goes both ways to an extent.  
  
Himuro doesn’t call him on it; he pushes back with the sense that there are teeth that he’s hiding, guarding; Kise’s daring him to bite and draw blood, show what’s under this porcelain mask. Himuro defers, demures, pushes again, but he’s going about it all wrong. For someone like Kise, that’s only going to spur his determination on. Maybe other people leave well enough alone, but Kise’s just going to keep chipping away, pulling back like he’s digging in his heels at tug of war.   
  
Himuro lets him stay over at night, falls asleep first, shadows of his lashes on his cheek (he’s let Kise see his other eye at least, but that seems to make him even more inscrutable, tricky like a layered puzzle, simpler at the crust of it). He drapes his arm over Kise’s waist, and it means nothing when he turns away in the morning.   
  
Kise wakes up, cold with a dry throat; Himuro’s sitting up and he freezes like a feral cat at the top of a wall, just a microsecond before he oh-so-carefully pretends to relax. Kise’s sick of this shit. He pulls himself up into a sitting position, pulls the covers away from Himuro and wraps himself in half. Himuro looks tired, leaning on tense arms, light from the street casting streaks across his face.   
  
“We’re never getting anywhere if you don’t let me in,” Kise says, leaning his head on Himuro’s shoulder.  
  
Himuro’s body is still tense, as if in releasing it everything would crack, and maybe it would; maybe he’s held together with cheap glue.  
  
“Everything about me’s boring,” says Himuro, a lie so unconvincing Kise’s almost impressed he’d tried it. “What if I don’t want you to get tired of me?”  
  
His tone is too light, a loose piece of paper flying away in the wind.   
  
“The only thing I’m tired of is this,” says Kise.


	10. kagahimu, don't stop

They are together, Taiga thinks, a little bit unsteady every day. He wakes up and they are together, even if they’re not physically; there’s a text from Tatsuya that might just be a late response to Taiga’s congratulations on the good game but still feels so damn good, dumb and simple and infused with happiness like some kind of artisan SMS message because it really is that good. But now the season’s over and they’re together in every sense, back in LA in Tatsuya’s apartment there--Taiga hasn’t officially moved in, but it’s not like he’d really rather spend his time in his dad’s giant, empty house (it’s not like his dad is traveling any less anyway). It’s not like everything hasn’t been building up to this, seemingly forever; they’ve been together for more time and for less time than they have, and it’s almost confusing to think about sometimes.  
  
That doesn’t mean Tatsuya’s not still Tatsuya, choosy with what he shows, openly warm but easier with physical affections that mean something a little more shallow, intense waves at the shoreline instead of the farther, deeper ones that make for better surfing, but Taiga’s just got to learn how to wade through him in this context. And it gets easier, little by little, subsiding as Taiga reaches in, reaches over to pull Tatsuya into a kiss and then hold him after, one hand on the small of his back, mouth resting on Tatsuya’s forehead.  
  
It gets a little easier when they go out for dinner and drinks and they get recognized even though this is some quiet little bar next to Taiga’s favorite surf shop and they have to sign autographs, and Taiga tries to be more civil than he fills and ends up just watching Tatsuya smile and pose for photos and letting Tatsuya pull him in for a few. It’s easier to smile when he’s smiling at Tatsuya.   
  
It’s easy to stay when the lights get dim and they’re just two guys again and they’ve gone through three orders of wings and Tatsuya’s on his fourth double IPA and he’s made a few remarks about breaking his diet and forget about the calories, that’s a hell of a lot of blood alcohol even for him; his cheeks are slightly flushed and he’s looking at Taiga like he’s drinking him in, the way he only ever looks at him in private and he’s let his guard down as low as it will go and, oh. They need to be out of here five second ago; Taiga leaves an extra-large cash tip for the bartender under his second glass, unfinished; he doesn’t even wait until they’re out of there to take Tatsuya’s hand.  
  
Tatsuya closes his eyes in the car but doesn’t go to sleep, his hand in Taiga’s on the console (and Taiga’s glad he’d ended up renting an automatic because as much as Tatsuya teases him about it it’s a hell of a lot better for this).   
  
Tatsuya’s already working at his clothes in the foyer, not bothering to be subtle or wait, pushing himself up against Taiga, pulling him in for a loose and sloppy kiss that tastes like alcohol and hot sauce and the breath mints from the tin in the glove compartment, and Taiga can take a hint. His hands are down Tatsuya’s shorts, groping his ass, thigh shoving in between Tatsuya’s. Theyw ant each other; Tatsuya’s never had a problem with admitting that, with making his voice go low on the telephone from five hundred miles away, but it’s the way he takes a breath and leans his head against Taiga’s shoulder like he’s almost dizzy, like he’s happy, that hits a little harder, makes Taiga still his hands.  
  
“Hey, don’t stop,” Tatsuya says and kicks his ankle, looking up with a slide of a grin that makes Taiga’s entire body want to explode with everything that’s in it.


	11. aokuro, teikou angst

Daiki hasn’t seen Tetsu since the championship, but did he really see Tetsu much then? He’d just assumed, but he really hadn’t seen; maybe on top of everything else he and Tetsu are so far apart that he just can’t fucking see him anymore. Maybe it’s like they’re on different planes of existence from each other, and they might as well be.   
  
If he really wanted to know he’d ask Satsuki; sometimes it looks almost like she wants to tell him. And, well, maybe a confirmation that Tetsu’s been avoiding him or that Tetsu hates him or that all that bad blood’s dried to form a scar, maybe one that Daiki can see with his eyes closed.  
  
He’s on the roof, pretending to sleep, when she tells him; he can hear her sit down and tuck her legs underneath her, take her hair out of its ponytail and gather it back up again.   
  
“Tetsu-kun hasn’t been coming to school,” she says.   
  
He pretends to ignore her, to still be sleeping; it gets harder as the wind picks up and Satsuki sighs, rising to her feet (he thinks about cracking and eye and looking up her skirt, but she probably wouldn’t even kick him for it now with that tone in her voice). So Tetsu feels like shit, too; so Tetsu knows what it’s like, now. Or maybe he thinks he does. Daiki hears Satsuki’s feet disappear and raises a hand to block out the sun when he opens his eyes; it only half-works and the light shines through, silhouetting his hand crudely. Fuck that. Daiki rolls over; the ground is hard but his uniform’s already dirty and he’s only got a few more months to wear it, anyway. Tetsu had been plugging away through this whole damn thing, too far below them all to feel the debris until it had all fallen down on him. But maybe it serves him right, from the look on his face, like he was blaming Daiki for everything. It takes two to fucking do this dance; it takes two sets of lips to meet, two hands to brush against each other; it takes two to let something fall apart that quickly.   
  
It still would have fallen apart anyway, but not like this, or maybe it doesn’t matter. But knowing Tetsu’s somewhere in this city, feeling just as much of a hollowed-out empty shell as Daiki doesn’t make him feel any better. Maybe the opposite.


	12. aohimu, enough

Daiki makes himself so easy to want, so easy to like. Behind the surly exterior there’s an easy laugh, a way he has of looking at Tatsuya like something that makes Tatsuya want to read something into it that’s not there. Like there’s something beyond his appreciation for Tatsuya as a physical specimen, even as a basketball player who pulls out all the plugs to compete with Daiki at two cylinders. His mussed-up hair in the morning, up early and over early to play ball, is too cute for a guy that big and lean, makes Tatsuya want to reach out and smooth it over. He does one day, and Daiki doesn’t pull back; he catches Tatsuya’s wrist and this is maybe where Tatsuya’s made the first mistake.  
  
Or maybe the first mistake had been entertaining this in his mind long enough to get this far in reality, of thinking _I want_ and going after someone who he’d waste himself on, because Daiki is--he’s not serious, not into Tatsuya the way Tatsuya’s into him. It’s just going to end up with them in each other’s beds, sheets tangled around them, maybe making each other breakfast (and Daiki always burns the eggs but Tatsuya eats them anyway, washing them down with extra coffee) and letting this carry on through summer and truncate itself gracefully at the end.  
  
“You know,” Daiki says, when the days are getting shorter, the earth careening toward the equinox. “The season.”  
  
He doesn’t elaborate, but Tatsuya braces himself. That’s his warning.  
  
“Maybe this is enough,” he says a week later, half-dressed after sex and sitting on the edge of the bed, keeping his face in neutral gear.  
  
“Enough of what?” says Daiki.  
  
“This. Us. No use in carrying it on now.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“The season’s coming,” says Tatsuya. “This was fun, but maybe we should give each other time enough to wind down.”  
  
“Oh,” says Daiki, hardness creeping into his voice, calcifying it. “You know, when I said that before, I meant--how we’re going to go forward, but.”  
  
“We’re not, are we?” says Tatsuya, giving himself enough breath to keep his voice from breaking.  
  
“I guess not,” says Daiki.  
  
Tatsuya takes the train home, all the way to the other end; there’s a hickey still on his neck and he smells kind of like sex, like Daiki and his sweat and the expensive fabric softener he uses. He tells himself to breathe, repeating it in his mind like a mantra, breathe-breathe-breathe. Daiki had thought he’d wanted more; Tatsuya had wanted more (because it’s so hard not to). But it’s too easy to see the future, the way they’d almost have to spill over more into each other’s lives, stain the carpets, make the inevitable break even messier. It’s worth it now even if it won’t feel like it when he sees Daiki’s stare like iron as he takes a free throw, as he blocks Tatsuya’s shot, as they clip their pleasantries short in polite company. He can’t go back and unpay that price anyway.


	13. murahimu, yosen

They’ve been dancing around the edge for so long that it feels like old hat, like they’ve been partners for a lifetime, that hands slip effortlessly onto waists, metaphorically mostly except for when it’s practice and they need to help each other with stretching, when Tatsuya all of a sudden loses balance and reaches out a hand to steady himself on Atsushi’s arm, an apology but Atsushi doesn’t pull his arm away, the mysterious crumbs and pieces of dust that Atsushi brushes off of Tatsuya’s hair (that Liu claims not to see, but that’s just an excuse for Atsushi to remark on his poor shooting percentage). They take bites of each other’s food, not quite feeding each other but teetering on the edge, corners of chocolate bars and snatched vegetables from bentos, the piece of radish Atsushi had tried to steal back from Tatsuya’s chopsticks and nearly succeeded.  
  
The way Tatsuya talks about basketball is so fucking stupid and Atsushi loves hearing about it anyway, like Tatsuya talks about loving basketball as a competition he’s going to win and he probably would (though who wants to win that), the way he talks about shots and steals and dribbles like they’re the most exciting thing in the world. It’s irritating; it’s irritating because he pays attention to that and not to Atsushi, that the way Atsushi has to grab his attention is through basketball and sometimes he thinks this is just some sly game that Tatsuya doesn’t really mean just to get him to own up to loving basketball even though he doesn’t or to make him a better player, but then he catches Tatsuya looking out of the corner of his eye, leaning forward and if this is a game then it’s way too fucking deep by now.   
  
Atsushi’s long since stopped trying to solve the way he feels, the way Tatsuya does stuff and it’s cute even though he’s so pretty, the way he doesn’t want Tatsuya to move away when he’s close, skin too soft for someone who devotes his life to a sport, the smell of his shampoo and the curve of his lips. It doesn’t have to make sense, and he’s just going to keep feeling it until he doesn’t. And it’s as simple as all of that until they crash into Atsushi’s bed and he wakes up with Tatsuya in his arms, so small and almost delicate in his strength, breathing even and sweat stuck to his skin, because then, Tatsuya’s pulse fluttering against Atsushi’s skin, it begins to make sense.


	14. aokagahimu, thinking too hard

Tatsuya wakes up sweating in the middle of the night, in the middle of the bed. All the limbs surrounding him, tangled with his, make Daiki and Taiga feel like a monolithic octopus from the deep, clutching at him, but isn’t that a little bit ironic of a thought for him to have? It makes him almost smile but it’s too bitter and he’s too hot; he sits up carefully but they’re heavy sleepers; Taiga’s still snoring, head next to Tatsuya’s hip; Daiki’s face is halfway into the pillow and he doesn’t stir, and Tatsuya tries not to get caught up in looking at them. He takes off his shirt and throws it over Daiki onto the floor; they’ll pick it up tomorrow.   
  
It feels dark and deep, but the only one dragging anyone down is Tatsuya, the way it always is. It would be easy to just leave, in theory; in practice it’s hard because he’s too fucking attached and even if it’s better it would hurt Taiga all over again (all at once now, rather than dragged out, either way the same result, maybe). Tatsuya’s the one who wants too much; he wants them both; he wants all of them, all of the things that are just between the two of them; he can’t be satisfied with the things he shares with Daiki and the lifetime of things he shares with Taiga, and all that sits between the three of them. He’s the greedy sea monster with many limbs, trying to pull at everything but he’ll end up cracking it apart, and all the things that would be okay if it was just Taiga and Daiki like this, maybe the way it should have been.  
  
Daiki shifts next to him, and Tatsuya reaches over without thinking to smooth his hair over his head. Daiki blinks up at him, sleepy.  
  
“What are you doing up?”   
  
Tatsuya shrugs. “Just got hot.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
Daiki’s not in the mood for talking, and Tatsuya exhales as he pulls himself out of the bed, away from the bathroom door and probably to the kitchen. Tatsuya slides back under the covers; the sweat’s mostly dry on his chest by now. His ankle slots back between Taiga’s; Taiga cuddles closer again and, oh, Tatsuya wants so much, for this all to be his forever.  
  
“You’re thinking about something,” Daiki says, setting his glass of water on the end table and pushing aside the covers, crawling in and half-spooning Tatsuya from the side.   
  
“Sometimes I think I want too much,” Tatsuya says, light enough for Daiki to maybe (hopefully) not take him too seriously.  
  
“We all do,” says Daiki, kissing him sloppy on the cheek.  
  
For him it’s so simple; Tatsuya sighs.  
  
“Stop thinking so hard,” says Daiki.  
  
It’s easier to think of it like this when they’re all just tangled limbs in the dark, but sleep is pulling on both of them; Daiki’s grip is tighter around Tatsuya’s waist, and maybe it’s okay to want this much for a little while longer.


	15. akakuro, fairy tale

Akashi wears a mask over half of his face, enough to hide his eye when he looks at someone, to not turn them, to see them move. It’s not often that he meets someone so hard to see, though, even in the glow of the full moon, graceful, flitting movements and hair like a moonbeam itself, muted light blue shadow-glow. Akashi wants to make him dance under the stars, clear the clearing of anyone else. He wants it to be just them, there, and Akashi quite often gets what he wants.  
  
This shadow-moon creature is too fast the first night he appears, dancing off before Akashi can reach his violin, but no matter. Akashi plays all night, the sweetest melody he knows; the forest creatures and the nymphs and the trees dance to it and it feels luminous, but more than that Akashi wants the melody to reach him, wherever he is, whoever he may be.  
  
For many nights as the moon wanes, Akashi keeps his bow at the ready, but it is only at the new moon that the mysterious moonbeam returns. Again he is silent, again nearly invisible; Akashi strikes a note and he freezes. Akashi begins his melody, looking out of the corner of his eye, and slowly the moonbeam begins to relax, softening under the stars. When Akashi looks up again he’s gone, chased out by the other spirits; his bowing that night turns loud and angry despite himself. Why had he left again? Why had the other spirits not respected his solitary beauty?  
  
Akashi does not expect him before the next full moon, but looks despite himself; again despite himself he looks full-on when the full moon appears. He catches the glimmer of movement in his peripheral vision, turns and the mask falls from his face. There is the moonbeam, staring straight into his eyes, blue and bright and gorgeous as he turns completely to stone, preserved forever, beauty duller but features intact.   
  
No matter that he cannot dance. Akashi will play for him anyway. The woodland spirits return; the music is soft and the moonlight softer. Akashi gives him an elegy, simple and melancholy; as the night wears on the spirits retreat and it is just he and Akashi, as it should be. Akashi lets the music go on, even after the moon sets. After all, the two of them are together no matter the moonlight now.


	16. akashi->kuroko<->aomine

Kuroko is cruel, but it’s the dull knives that leave the worst wounds. They’re the ones pressed to hard, that don’t cut until they cut too far, and now there’s blood all over Akashi’s hands, invisible to everyone but him. There’s a voice in his head that whispers things of course Kuroko would never, that he’s always had eyes for Aomine, that that twisted tangled metaphor about light rings true here. Aomine’s light is so strong that a stark shadow like Kuroko can’t help but follow, that a shadow may stray and grow long but it will always snap back to the light when the angle changes over.   
  
“I’m glad you could come, Kuroko,” Akashi says, and Kuroko looks back at him, blank as always.  
  
“Of course, Akashi-kun.”  
  
“Oi, Tetsu!”  
  
And Kuroko’s demeanor changes, slight enough to anyone not looking close enough, but to Akashi it’s stark, a sharpened shadow against the pavement as he approaches the streetlight. Aomine’s waving; Kuroko’s lips are slightly curved into a smile; he stands to greet him and Akashi does not look away when they kiss. Perhaps it’s more polite, but this is his house. Were Akashi someone else, he might make a cutting remark about Aomine greeting a significant other like that, but it would fall too dry from his lips.  
  
Aomine’s arm drops around Kuroko’s shoulders, and Akashi sips his tea, thinking about it spreading calm through his body. It does no good to be angry; this is a step up from playing shogi by himself while Aomine distracted Kuroko from their conversations back at Teikou and then Akashi feels pathetic for thinking that. Is it really a step up when he’s still watching them from across the table, almost like a voyeur in his own home to their relationship, Aomine’s unrelenting casual up against Tetsuya’s quiet formality, the way they somehow don’t clash completely. Wanting Kuroko is cruel, and Kuroko’s the one who twists the knife by looking at Aomine the way he does, the smuggest sort of happiness that makes Akashi wish he could crush his teacup in his fist.   
  
He always invites Kuroko; Kuroko always brings Aomine; if Akashi presses it he pretends to assume it’s a group thing. It’s his way of saying that he knows and he does not want any part of this, even if it’s just the two of them, platonically, like he needs his buffer of a boyfriend. But Akashi will not concede; he’ll let Kuroko bring Aomine because he’s still here; perhaps one day Aomine will cancel and Kuroko will not be able to scramble for an excuse; perhaps one day Kuroko will pity him and Akashi will pounce. He can wait.


	17. mayuaka, black swan

“How far will you go until you snap?” Mayuzumi says, under his breath.  
  
It carries a little on the wind but dies before it reaches Akashi. Mayuzumi’s never had to intentionally make his little asides unheard before; no one notices him and he’s used to making them as loud as he wants (which is never all that much, but still). Akashi always sees, hears, sharp senses like a wild animal, like those limbs will propel him rabid across the room. It’s a fascinating tension between Akashi and himself, as if he’s about to cock his head and listen to a voice no one can hear but him, a voice that still does not drown out Mayuzumi’s to him.  
  
There’s something off, something sick about Akashi, but Mayuzumi likes it about him, the mismatched eyes and the way he wins at everything like some magic spell, the way has plenty of his own bullshit but won’t put up with anyone else’s. Akashi is, in some ways, a cruel genie’s interpretation of everything Mayuzumi wishes he was; in others he is just like Mayuzumi. It’s nice not to be alone, Mayuzumi thinks, and perhaps he’s getting complacent.  
  
You can’t be as complacent with somebody who has a temperament like that, rash and prone to statements he can’t possibly backup (and then he does back them up, somehow, as if he’s gambling all the luck of his next thousand lifetimes over and over again, like he’s going to enjoy being a moth or a piece of algae until the world explodes). It’s a little masochistic, but then again, that’s like Mayuzumi, too. That’s why Mayuzumi lets himself get used to this.  
  
The way he is, now, this other him--it’s hard to think of this person as the real one when the other one stands out so larger than life in Mayuzumi’s mind. The way he was before is real; it’s as if him being the real one, dragging Mayuzumi into the forefront, into reality, legitimizes him. It’s as if without it Mayuzumi fades.  
  
“It wasn’t that much, huh,” he says.  
  
“I’m sorry?” says Akashi.  
  
“Come kiss me,” says Mayuzumi.  
  
Akashi knows he hadn’t said that, but kisses him anyway. His lips are soft and tasteless. Akashi pulls back; he doesn’t tell Mayuzumi that they used to kiss differently. He probably doesn’t want that anymore, if he wants Mayuzumi at all, or if Mayuzumi wants him like this.


	18. imahana, see you in hell

“See you in hell,” Hanamiya says, biting out the words after Imayoshi breaks the kiss.  
  
Imayoshi watches him walk away, all the posturing that hadn’t been there once. He used to pretend to be such a sweet kid; the poison leaking from him like ink from a fountain pen had been obvious, but still. It’s odd to watch him slouch and embrace this whole bad-boy thing; it’s odd to watch him lie through his teeth about other things, the pretension so easily discarded for a different kind. He spits real venom at Imayoshi sometimes, and it’s not out of pure sarcasm that Imayoshi tells Hanamiya it wounds him. It’s just a little off-putting that a smart kid like Hanamiya so easily equates the two of them, like two sides of the same coin. It’s simpler like that, sure, but Hanamiya doesn’t like things simple. He likes to weave a tangled web that even he has trouble deciphering, though perhaps this is a means to an end. Maybe he really is pulling one over Imayoshi, or wants Imayoshi to think he is.  
  
Sometimes Imayoshi thinks things are getting, if not better, to a point where they break even and plateau, a gentle wave in the midst of such rough surf. It’s a mistake; he doesn’t let his guard down on purpose but it still stings when they’re fucking and Hanamiya pulls back and tells him there’s a special place in hell for people like Imayoshi, as if Imayoshi’s supposed to know where it came from. Maybe he thinks Imayoshi likes it; Imayoshi swallows Hanamiya’s breath in a kiss in exchange and bites his shoulder; he knows Hanamiya likes that (for as complicated as Hanamiya wants things, sometimes he’s simple and straightforward; he wants to be left red-faced and panting; his primal urges are a bit more primal).  
  
It wears on Imayoshi, Hanamiya’s constant barrage; his cute moments are farther between; he is nothing but anger and badly-disguised insults; Imayoshi will goad him into playing video games and Hanamiya won’t even pout when he loses, turning it into a way he can bite Imayoshi’s lips from the inside out. It’s exhausting, being with him; that’s what Imayoshi tells him when he leaves.  
  
“You’re just quitting like that?”  
  
“It’s a long time coming, Makoto-kun.”  
  
“Shut up with that familiarity. I’ll see you in hell!”  
  
He slams the door, nearly on Imayoshi’s nose. Imayoshi’s got no doubt they’ll meet there eventually, but perhaps not until then from now.


	19. akakuro, date

Akashi is patient. He’s had to be, considering the people he’s had to deal with, and it’s not as if he’d used up a limited supply on them. Rather, he’d have no patience with them in order to pool it all into this, here, because it’s worth it. Kuroko is worth the wait, the patience, the point in which his grip around this routine makes his fingers numb. But he will not let go, even if he’s ahead; even if he’s getting through that’s the moment when Kuroko will find room to dart away and demur again.   
  
It takes patience, exacting movements, a steady hand, the same hand steady on shogi tiles or the bow of a violin, on practice schedules or chalk on the board in front of the class, steady like riding a difficult horse. Kuroko will yield, always, up to a point; it’s as if he’s testing Akashi, making Akashi win each battle. It’s like Kuroko’s giving him the gift of challenge, so that when Akashi finally wins him over it will be all that much more rewarding (though this was never about the thrill of the chase if there was such a thing; Akashi would much rather have Kuroko accept his touches and kisses now if it was his choice to make).  
  
“What do you think of the pastries, Kuroko?”  
  
“They’re a bit rich, Akashi-kun,” says Kuroko.  
  
Three quarters of his danish still sit on his plate. Akashi had opted for a smaller piece of cake; he had offered a bite from his fork to Kuroko and Kuroko had shaken his head.   
  
“May I?” says Akashi.  
  
Kuroko acquiesces, pushing the plate a little closer to the center of the table, and Akashi tears off a corner, biting into it right on the marks from Kuroko’s teeth. Kuroko watches him, saying nothing.  
  
“Did you like it?” Akashi asks.  
  
Kuroko nods, and Akashi makes a mental note of it. He doesn’t mention how nice Kuroko looks this time, nor does he ask if Kuroko wants to go shopping later (he’ll make an excuse anyway, and perhaps Akashi ought to disappoint him by not letting him give it). Instead, he flags the waiter down and pays (and Kuroko always lets him do that). Akashi leaves several bills inside the case, and places it down on the table. He moves his hand over, away from Kuroko’s plate, to cover Kuroko’s hand. He has plenty of time to move away, but he doesn’t; his face turns perhaps a shade pinker. Akashi has to try hard not to smile as widely as he wants to.


	20. aomine & momoi, tomorrow

Graduation is tomorrow, and Satsuki’s not ready. She, who’s always prepared (overly so), always ahead of the crowd, is not ready for something that most people look forward to. It’s not lost on her, but there’s a twist in the road ahead that she can see behind, and she’s not sure if she likes what it is. Maybe this was all a mistake; maybe college isn’t for her; maybe Daiki’s team could use an assistant or an equipment manager or something. It’s a fake second guess; she doesn’t need to tell herself twice that they’re both doing what’s right for them, but what’s right for each of them has always been staying together before now.   
  
Daiki’s eyes are a little red; he’s still the same crybaby he always was, and it’s a little touching (even if he won’t say it in as many words as Satsuki’s feeling) but a little worrying, too. How’s he going to be on his own, on some pro team where he doesn’t know anyone? High-achieving prospect or no, he still has to adjust to a new city and a new set of people and a new schedule. And there’s no equivocating about it; she worries he won’t but a part of her worries that he will adjust, that he doesn’t need her, and she’ll be stuck here in Tokyo floundering by herself.   
  
“Satsuki,” says Daiki, coughing.  
  
She turns and then he flings his arms around her, inelegantly. They’ve never been especially physical with each other (aside from the punches and kicks they’ve always thrown), and it’s hard for Satsuki to get her arms around Daiki’s huge frame, to find a comfortable way of resting her head. His arms are tight around her waist and she can feel his breath all shuddery and, fuck, she’s tearing up, too.  
  
“I don’t want you to leave,” she whispers. “Not without me.”  
  
“I don’t want you to leave me behind,” he says back.  
  
“You’re the one going out into the world.”  
  
“But you...Satsuki, it’s always been hard for me to follow and, ugh.”  
  
She knows Daiki like the inside of her favorite sneakers, molded to her feet; she knows him better than the inside of her closet or how to set up the opening tipoff. But she’s still not sure what he’s getting at.  
  
“I look up to you, you know? This is fucking embarrassing,” Daiki says, and he’s talking through tears, too.   
  
“You’ll be fine,” says Satsuki, with the absolute confidence of someone who’s so used to having unshakeable faith she fakes it by default even when she doesn’t.   
  
They fall asleep together on her floor that night, like they did every summer when they were kids.


	21. takamido, breakup

Of all the things Takao had thought to expect, a very average sort of relationship wasn’t among them when he’d first stared his crush on Midorima in the face all those years ago (well, four and change, but they’re young and it feels like a long time when there’s a few-day gap between it and where Takao is, staring out the window of the lecture hall and doodling chain links on the corner of his notebook paper). And Takao was himself and Midorima was Midorima; they’d obviously be more than that if anything ever came of it--except, really, they hadn’t been.  
  
And the arc of this relationship had gone, steady and predictable, the way so many high school relationships go, happiness dappled across the surface like sun through a scattered cloud cover over the lawn, promises to stay together at universities across town from each other, nights stolen in tiny dorm rooms and once or twice a love hotel, their worlds drifting apart through space slowly as their universes had expanded in opposite directions, until it seemed so sudden but their fingers could no longer reach across. And Midorima had apologized and cried and Takao had told him he understood, and it hadn’t been a lie.  
  
It hadn’t strictly been true, either; Takao’s on the same page and feeling the same alienation, the same divide, the same lack of clarity on how to bridge it. And maybe they haven’t tried hard enough to keep their worlds aligned, but maybe it’s too little too late, like teeth fixed with braces but fallen back into the same unevenness without a retainer that’s now too far from their shape to force them straight all over again. They’d had a good run, the Winter Cup, the basketball in the park, Midorima’s smile and long, slim fingers touching Takao’s skin. A smile Takao had once valiantly tried to ease out with teasing, with bothering, with affection, but now no longer affects him so. He doesn’t even miss Midorima particularly; he’s grown used to being without him. He misses wanting him, though, and Midorima wanting him back, the warmth in his chest those first few times Midorima had shown him undisguised affection. Maybe that’s the wrong way of breaking up. Maybe that’s why they’d failed in the first place, attachment to attachment looming larger than attachment to each other. But maybe, someday--maybe there are still some greater things down the road between them, but Takao will only let himself think that thought if it’s comforting.


	22. kikasa, reunion

It’s not like there was any alternative. That’s what Kasamatsu tells himself anyway when he deletes the messages on his voicemail; it’s what he tells himself when he changes the channel away from Kise tearing it up with the Warriors. It’s his best season yet, as if he’d made some great change in the offseason, they say, not knowing that it’s true. It’s not like that makes it hurt any less that Kise’s doing better now that he doesn’t have Kasamatsu to tie him down to a home, a particular place far away from any of the twenty-five-odd cities in which he conducts his business now. It’s not like they were all that happy with the distance; some people can make it work but they couldn’t, stolen hours and missed calls and breaking signals (and maybe that’s why Kasamatsu had missed so many signs that it was headed toward the end).  
  
Realistically, it’s for the best, until Kise’s knee implodes.   
  
They give him the MVP anyway, despite missing the last half-month of the season and all of the playoffs, maybe because they know this is the kind of injury people don’t recover from the way you recover from a sprained ankle, a broken arm, even a rotator cuff injury. His contract’s up; he announces his retirement; he’s not going to stay in Oakland for the championship ceremony (Kasamatsu finds himself in the awkward predicament of just thinking he’d gotten over Kise and having well-meaning, concerned friends--and Moriyama--shoving all these articles in his fucking face).   
  
Kasamatsu swears under his breath every time he hopes for some kind of reconciliation; he does it out of habit when the doorbell rings and it’s probably just some kid playing a prank and he pulls the door open and almost hits himself in the face because Kise’s fucking there, cast on his leg and a bouquet of white daisies in his hand (the same kind of flowers Kasamatsu had gotten him, fraught with indecision, on their first date that’s almost too long ago to recall).  
  
“I missed you,” he says, clear and simple.  
  
And why shouldn’t it be that way, when the obstacles have suddenly disappeared?  
  
“I’m not happy about your knee,” Kasamatsu says, because he can’t think of anything else.   
  
Kise laughs, pushing the flowers into his hand and sliding their fingers together like this had just been a stutter, a stopgap. They have so much more to talk about; this isn’t just some fucking pretty picture that Kise can rearrange with a perfect smile. But up close, his face is worn; he looks a little more unsure, less brazen.   
  
“You can come in, I guess,” Kasamatsu says, and he kisses Kise before they’re through the doorframe.


	23. nijihimu, bite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vampire!tatsuya, brief vaguely gory imagery

Tatsuya never bites deep, never draws enough blood from Shuuzou’s body to make him more than a little dizzy. Shuuzou’s heard stories about familiars, the ones who get their blood sucked half-dry and live for a while until they’re turned, until their blood gets richer, pooling in their master’s mouths. Tatsuya doesn’t do that. It’s not like Shuuzou is a snack or a delicacy and he’s got other people to suck dry; sometimes Shuuzou wonders if Tatsuya’s got enough. Sometimes he appears almost sick, weak; he’ll stumble off into the forest in the middle of the night and Shuuzou cannot sleep, drawing the blankets around him tighter until Tatsuya comes back. He always does, smelling of strange blood (he leaves the animal carcasses in the hall, waking up in the morning with a little color in his cheeks as he busies himself with cutting them up and storing them, offering a bit of meat to Shuuzou to cook).   
  
“You can take more,” Shuuzou says, sometimes, but it only makes Tatsuya draw back, his eye seeming to slam like a door.   
  
His body’s always cold but Shuuzou holds him at night anyway, warm enough with the layers of blankets around them in the bed. Warm blood, warm coffee, a hot bath, none of it makes Tatsuya’s temperature rise. And yet, despite the walls he puts up, despite the cool hands on Shuuzou’s skin, Shuuzou’s never met a warmer person. He’s never gotten the sense that Tatsuya wants him to be uncomfortable. And it’s not like Shuuzou has anywhere else to go, but if he were to leave he doubts very much that Tatsuya would make him stay (not that he’d leave even if he did, not that he could leave Tatsuya alone). Just because he’s lonely doesn’t mean he’s cold and unfeeling; maybe he feels even more because he’s lived so long. He just has more experience hiding it, is all.   
  
He can’t pretend he isn’t hungry, but it’s always as if he’s afraid he’ll snap, as if he’ll go outside and tear apart a whole herd of deer, as if he’ll suck Shuuzou dry and squeeze what’s left on the carpet like some kind of rabid monster. And maybe he is teetering at that edge; maybe one of these days something will shove him over; maybe that’s just another one of the thousands of facets of him Shuuzou has yet to see. But even if that day comes, Shuuzou will offer himself, push the hair off his neck and turn it toward Tatsuya’s mouth, because Tatsuya needs it even if he hates admitting it.


	24. akamido, swans

Midorima knows very little of the Swan Lake story, only the music from radio recordings, his piano teacher talking about Tchaikovsky in a larger sense, something about a princess who turns into a swan. He’s heard some of the violin passages, from being over at Akashi’s house, talking about music in a roundabout way, and Akashi pulling out his instrument. He’d played them exact, smooth and rough when the piece needed to be, clear in the room and confident off-book (even with a piece he knows, Midorima prefers having the sheet music there, a guide in case he gets lost; people like Akashi, Midorima had supposed, don’t get lost).  
  
There is something about a dark doppelganger in Swan Lake, too, Midorima thinks, but he never thinks of it hard enough to look it up. Or maybe he doesn’t want to know, not after Akashi turns into a dark doppelganger of himself, unrecognizable walking in Akashi’s body, dribbling with Akashi’s hands, speaking in Akashi’s voice. But the thing about this other Akashi was he’d held Midorima’s heart in his hands just as easily. He’d seemed more likely to crush it in two, or maybe he’d been squeezing at it, enough to shorten Midorima’s breath but not enough to shut him down.   
  
But he’d he’d Midorima’s heart as easily as he holds Midorima’s hand now, in the back of the music store, the dusty rows of sheet music climbing higher on the bookshelves, some too high for even Midorima to reach without a stepladder. But the Saint-Saens is on a lower shelf, loose leafs of music stuffed and crammed where they both can reach and flip through. Midorima finds a few piano parts, a few violin parts, none of them matching. Akashi is pulling out books, spines worn away, until he finds two thin volumes banded together.  
  
“How about this one?”  
  
It’s a violin sonata; the piano part’s included, back under the part of the rubber band that’s nearly frayed. Midorima pulls it gently; their heads bend over the score. Akashi’s eyes, both red, flick up to Midorima’s, and Midorima feels his mouth relax into a smile.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
They stay a little while longer in the back. Neither of them needs any more music, but it’s nice to look. It’s nice to hold hands, and it’s nice when Akashi stands on a stepstool to kiss him softly, slightly-dusty fingers caught in Midorima’s hair.


	25. kagahimu, angst

Taiga’s gone ahead again, one step farther, two, three, until he’s doing crossovers and Tatsuya’s just trying to master a regular dribble, a low bounce that turns gracefully into a jumper while Taiga’s dunking from the free throw line. It makes Tatsuya hurt all over again, like the Winter Cup, like Taiga being chosen again and again, like the impact of his fist all the way back in LA.   
  
It hurts more because he’d deluded himself into thinking that maybe, maybe somewhere along the line--he’d never let himself get much farther on that train of thought, forcibly ejecting himself before the first stop, on the ground beside the tracks, gravel digging into his skin. It was never a possibility, him and Taiga; it shouldn’t even be possible that they’re brothers, rivals, whatever they are right now; the shapes don’t fit together as easily as they used to but maybe they never had. Maybe it had just been Tatsuya’s shitty depth perception and dogged determination that had placed them that way, shoved them into positions where they hadn’t fit.   
  
He wants to pick up the phone and call Taiga, far away in LA using one of those VOIP services so his parents don’t get charged a boatload (but even if that didn’t exist he’d still want to; he’d just have something better to keep his hands clamping down over the screen before he slides it across the desk and ignores when it buzzes). It’s better for him not to; it’s better for him to stay away. It’s better not to try and get closer when Taiga’s already left, when Taiga’s going to leave him so far behind it’ll be hard to imagine that the two of them were ever close, that Tatsuya was ever ahead. That’s the trajectory they’d been headed toward since day one, Tatsuya the star that flamed out (or, more like a brown dwarf, hadn’t really shone to begin with) and Taiga the one who had kept going and growing brighter, pushing forward.   
  
Taiga calls anyway, and Tatsuya picks up despite himself. He asks about school, Taiga’s new team, lets the words rip his heart open and feed it to the wolves (it’s better to hear Taiga talk so warmly; he’s the one at fault here for being so jealous in the first place). He tells himself, silently, to let go; his fingers clench tighter around the edges of his phone.


	26. kikasa, working blues

Kise’s not always around; it’s in the nature of his job. Being a pilot works for him; it keeps him interested, eyes always on the air or some sort of destination (even though he admits, second cup of coffee and late out the door, that all the cities kind of start to look the same). But even when he’s not there he makes himself known; he leaves little messages, sticky notes that leave adhesive on the windows, e-mail messages sent from up in the air, flowers left in a vase on the kitchen table that Kasamatsu doesn’t even see until the next day because he’s half-dead when he gets home.  
  
Sometimes he thinks it would be better if Kise were there, if the apartment weren’t so damn empty even with the things Kise leaves. He could vent to Kise every night about the stupid shit his manager pulls, the numbers that end up half-filled-out on his spreadsheets that make his head fuzzy when he looks up from the bento he always ends up eating at his desk and his phone’s ringing again. Sometimes he thinks it’s better this way, when he comes home almost too exhausted to undress, fingers fumbling with his tie for five minutes while he stares into the mirror at how his hair is growing too long (when’s he going to have time for a haircut?) and the exhaustion so clear in his eyes. Kise doesn’t need to deal with this; Kise has no use for this kind of shitty company.  
  
Sometimes Kise gets home after he leaves and even on the worst, coldest mornings when Kasamatsu’s running on empty he remembers to leave a note of his own in the fridge, a “thanks for your note and REMEMBER TO EAT” written in bold on his leftover takeout or the meal he’d somehow managed to make half-asleep when he’d gotten home after dark. And he always comes home to find Kise curled up in bed, dirty dishes in the sink, a pen and a half-scrawled note in Kise’s hand.   
  
This arrangement isn’t the optimal one, for either of them, the exhaustion and boredom that bears down from all sides. But they’ve still got each other, for whatever that’s worth. And as Kasamatsu crawls into bed, muttering to a Kise who won’t hear him that he snores too fucking loudly, it’s worth a hell of a lot to him.


	27. kiyohana, bite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brief violent imagery

The worst part of Kiyoshi is how alike they are, or how alike Kiyoshi seems to think they are. And maybe they both have crummy, rotten souls, eaten through by mold and mildew, but Kiyoshi’s seems to shine all the brighter for it. He’s got annoying sycophants like that Hyuuga kid groveling at his feet, telling him he’s the most honest man, and Hanamiya thinks about suggesting he get a better pair of glasses. Kiyoshi’s despicable to the core and yet no one seems to see it behind the stupid mask he wears.  
  
It’s like he’s fucking years behind Hanamiya; Hanamiya’s long since given up on that; fooling everyone had been child’s play (and, no, no matter how fucking smart Seto thinks he is, it’s not because Imayoshi or anyone else had somehow figured out his game; that’s got nothing to do with this at all). Hanamiya’s getting more than a little bored of waiting around for him to admit it, just give up, because isn’t he reaching the point of diminishing returns on whatever kind of reaction he can elicit, the number of people he can draw into his little charade?   
  
“Aren’t you getting bored with this garbage?” Hanamiya asks him.   
  
Kiyoshi laughs. “What do you mean? Does it bother you, Hanamiya?”  
  
“As if,” says Hanamiya, crossing his arms (damn Kiyoshi for being that much bigger).  
  
“I think it does,” says Kiyoshi, kissing him.  
  
Hanamiya bites first but Kiyoshi bites harder, pretending it’s a slip of his teeth (the fucking liar).  
  
“It’s okay,” says Hanamiya. “I like that.”  
  
He knows his lips are swollen, but he knows Kiyoshi’s waiting for his next sentence (but he can’t not give it, because--no, he does not ever mean that kind of shit when he says it).  
  
“Kidding, dumbass.”  
  
“Aww,” says Kiyoshi, pretending to pout.  
  
Hanamiya wants to sock him in the eye.   
  
“You really are the worst, Kiyoshi.”  
  
“Coming from you, that’s a compliment,” says Kiyoshi. “I’m flattered.”  
  
Hanamiya scowls. The so-called good, boring people who shove their moral compasses in everyone’s faces, they’re equally insufferable, despite being the exact opposite of Kiyoshi. It doesn’t matter, except it does. Does Kiyoshi really think Hanamiya’s got that little of a grasp on him? Is this some kind of larger trick?  
  
“Fuck you,” Hanamiya says, settling on something all-purpose, if not quite as effective as it could be.  
  
Still, Kiyoshi lets the moment lie for now.


	28. aokise, chicken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see end notes for spoiler warnings

They play an endless game of chicken, hotwiring muscle cars off a closed lot and driving them toward each other, diving out the doors as the fronts crumple together like a kiss (Aomine says it once and Kise laughs until he can barely breathe and Aomine threatens to leave him at the side of the freeway to the mercy of anyone who comes along). They slam balls through hoops until their fingers are bleeding under the skin from the contact, climb barbed-wire fences, smoke cigarettes with the filters pulled out, press the flames to each other’s skins until they want to scream and once, Aomine had broken a tooth clenching his jaw and they’d decided that victory went to Kise (grudging, because the sharp line of the half-tooth always snags on Kise’s tongue in Aomine’s mouth).   
  
Aomine pierces Kise’s ear with a rusty nail and he doesn’t get infected, only an extra earring that’s off-center enough to make him hide it under his hair (fucking vain, Aomine calls him, until Kise asks if he wants to do his). They pour gasoline on their charcoal grill, siphoned from the rich neighbor’s parked European monstrosity (and he can’t prove they did it; Kise lies through his pretty lips that they’d only been using lighter fluid despite the smell, and then bashfully admits they’d taken some from their own car, inviting him to look at their meter, which is never full anyway because they’re always going on joyrides).   
  
And if this is how it’s going to end, another joyride up the coast, stopping five times for gas until Aomine gives in and fills up the gas tank all the way, then, well, they’d had a fucking fantastic run of it, all things considered.  
  
“Car’s fucking heavy,” says Kise. “I don’t like the extra load. We’re going to list to one side.”  
  
“Ain’t that much,” says Aomine.  
  
“If it’s not, then don’t bother filling it,” says Kise.   
  
Aomine stomps on the pedal and forgets to use the turn signal before they merge into traffic, if this can be called traffic at all. It’s thin, just a few old cars going where they need to, monotonous drones that they all are.   
  
“You’re going to drive us off a cliff,” says Kise, and Aomine knows a dare when he hears one.   
  
He drives closer to the line, to the shoulder; they can see the ocean roaring and rushing by below on the side. Aomine leans; the right wheels are skidding over dirt and the sensation’s uneven. Kise’s eyes are wide and wild; he doesn’t say to turn back and Aomine keeps waiting for Kise to say, so he can turn and laugh and call his win this time. The only thing is, Kise doesn’t; there’s a bend in the road. Aomine takes his hands off the wheel and they’re flying.   
  
Kise pulls him into a kiss as the breath is ripped from his lungs and the car turns, to the side with the tank full of gas, to force them against Kise’s window as it falls to crumple in a kiss against the surface of the ocean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> character death


	29. murahimu, ready

Atsushi can barely fit in the dorm shower himself, but somehow Tatsuya wedges himself in next to him, limbs and body heat and soap shared. Atsushi’s head goes above the showerhead; Tatsuya stands on tiptoe to tilt it so that it sprays his hair, washing the suds of shampoo down and away, sliding down his body and toward the drain. Tatsuya lets his gaze drag over Atsushi’s skin, away from the shampoo and toward his abs, the bruise on his hip, the way he’s holding his wrist.  
  
“It’s fine,” says Atsushi.  
  
“If you’re sure,” says Tatsuya.  
  
Atsushi washes Tatsuya’s back, his arms bending where there shouldn’t be any room, one hand covering from the edge of Tatsuya’s shoulder to his spine, rubbing in the soap. Tatsuya arches into the touch; Atsushi hums, sweeping aside part of Tatsuya’s hair to kiss his ear.   
  
“Are you ready?” Tatsuya says, toweling his hair and dressing in his practice clothes.  
  
“I don’t see why we had to get clean if we’re just going to practice,” says Atsushi. “It’s a waste.”  
  
Tatsuya shrugs and smiles, sharp and thin. He knows Atsushi does get it; they both know there’s a scrimmage today and they both know how many days are left before the Winter Cup tournament begins, few enough to count down. Atsushi can say it’s just practice and it doesn’t matter all he wants, but they both know he’s going to go hard, match Tatsuya for strength and surpass him in output if Coach lets him use his wrist that much (he’ll probably go too hard and she’ll yell at him and lean on her sword and take him out and he’ll sulk on the bench for the rest of the game and they’ll both need an extra-long shower afterward). Atsushi pretends to busy himself with pulling his hair away from his face, wringing it out over the sink; Tatsuya knows he’s already won.  
  
They start with drills; Atsushi’s already passing harder, shooting faster and more accurately and more, and maybe he’ll only be allowed to go a few minutes. No matter, they all need the practice (even though they all need the practice against players like him, capable of holding the entire court in their hands). Tatsuya’s going over the schedules with Liu, and Atsushi drops his arm around Tatsuya’s shoulder.  
  
“I’m ready now,” he says, in a tone that says ready to get it over with (and he calls Tatsuya a liar).


	30. momoriko, arcade

Stomping boys at the arcade would be boring if it wasn’t so satisfying, if they didn’t look at Riko like small fry every time, see nothing but the hair clips and the skirt and the pink phone case and assume no girl--no feminine girl, especially--could possibly know how the controls on an arcade machine work. Because obviously it’s too much for her simple mind, or some sort of secret club her gender has never allowed her membership to.  
  
She gets tired of dealing with that shit, too, even if she kicks their asses every time, but knowing Satsuki’s watching is the best motivator there is, catching her eye from the corner, watching her smirk and lean forward, the glow of the neon lights on her face, lighting her bright pink hair like a firework. It sends the blood coursing through Riko’s veins, her fingers smooth on the joysticks, ramming up vehicles, firing plastic guns, mashing buttons in seemingly-random but well-practiced combinations that give her fighter the ultimate advantage. Let the boys think it’s the power of their competition that’s making her go harder; it doesn’t matter what they think in the end.  
  
When they finally leave, all in a huff and blaming luck, claiming they’d let her win because she was so into it, she finds Satsuki, coasting through the easy levels of a cheap platformer in the back corner, where the lights shine through dust and the machines are sticky and you have to shove the tokens in just right.  
  
“Show me?” says Satsuki. “I want to get through this faster.”  
  
She leans forward, a difficult jump, barely making it as her character dodges fire.   
  
“Here,” says Riko, placing her hands over Satsuki’s, smaller but still guiding them, up and to the right, swinging the weapon down for a quick clearing out.   
  
“Good game earlier, by the way,” says Satsuki, tilting her head to kiss Riko slow and soft.   
  
Riko’s still watching the screen, moving Satsuki’s hands on the control. Satsuki closes her eyes and drags her lips over Riko’s jaw, lets Riko take her through the end of the level, hands moving in familiar conjunction, the kind of game Riko had grown up playing.  
  
“Let me do the next one?”  
  
She only dies twice, not bad for a beginner. But Riko’s always taken her for a quick learner.  
  
“Teach me to beat you sometime.”  
  
Riko knows Satsuki’s only half-kidding, and, well--she wouldn’t mind some good competition for once.


	31. murakise, uncomplicated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gratuitous glass eating

What's between them is uncomplicated, though they can be complicated people. Kise unnecessarily so, Murasakibara thinks, but he can push that issue some other time, when they're not on a date and Kise's going to talk too much anyway. Right now his voice is silent as he breaks off another piece of the broken beer stein in front of them.  
  
Murasakibara prefers mirrors if he has a choice, the crunch of the back coating and the way it scrapes dull against his teeth, the way the light bounces off of them onto the ceiling like some kind of anti-shadow (the glass faces of watches do that, too, but they're not nearly so large enough as to make for much more than an absent snack on the couch, too thin and gone too soon). Kise prefers to keep thr mirrors intact so he can stare at his own pretty face in them, and Murasakibara will concede him that in his own house at least. And this isn't bad at all, the curvature smooth under Murasakibara's tongue until the sudden roughness of the edge, the pleasant crack as it breaks to smithereens.  
  
Murasakibara dips his finger in the glittery dust, sucks it off like powdered sugar, watches Kise's eyes (sharp, even more than the shards between his lips) watchthe action.  
  
"You're teasing," says Kise, pouting his lips.  
  
They're swollen, nicked and scratched from all the glass, shards sticking to the insides like bone, sparkling in the light like surrealist makeup. It looks cute, and Murasakibara's hungry. He leans in to catch Kise's lips in his, swipe his tongue across the shards and swallow them down. Kise’s too quick, though, nimble and a fast learner; he swipes a few back and they clink against his teeth like fingers typing on a keyboard, like duller versions of wind chimes.   
  
“Let me have a mirror next time, Kise-chin,” Murasakibara says.   
  
Kise sighs, as if Murasakibara’s just asked the impossible of him. He’s too dramatic, but even this is simple, straightforward, a request. Murasakibara holds out his hands, his fingertips cracked from slipping on serrated edges without caution like a backyard pond skated over until it’s almost melted. Kise is more careful and diligent; his fingers are barely nicked though his nails are split where they haven’t been filed down enough, but they’re still soft. Kise clasp’s Murasakibara’s hand in his, the gaps deep as chasms between Murasakibara’s fingers.  
  
“Give me ornaments?”  
  
Murasakibara can’t say no to that. He falls asleep that night already dreaming of green glitter and delicate crunches under Kise’s teeth.


	32. mayuaka, belief

They are hurtling toward the Winter Cup, and Mayuzumi almost believes. He almost believes that this is going somewhere, that they are going somewhere beyond the winter, as foolish as it is. And he’d started out the season as just another face, a nobody; at this point he’s got no face at all, less than nobody, and he’s somebody all the same. The light shines so bright his pale skin, pale hair, blend into the shine of the wax on the court, and he can be everywhere and nowhere at once, even with his limited skills. He almost believes and wants to believe in that paradoxical glory, the glory that comes from the shadows, being dragged somehow into the light.   
  
After all, if Akashi’s as good as he says he is, then why can’t he do that, too? The challenge lies unspoken between them on the bed, too small to be a third participant but making its presence known all the same, the opposite of Mayuzumi. It makes him smile, humorless, and kiss Akashi again (not as if he’s trying to kiss himself real; he’s read enough light novels to know that shit never works the way you want it to, protagonist or no). It won’t benefit him to leave Mayuzumi in shadow except perhaps in terms of spite toward whatever thing Akashi looks toward in the past, some tainted glory that Mayuzumi really doesn’t care about except when Akashi cares about it more than about him. Which is maybe always, but Mayuzumi can't resist the value of a good illusion.   
  
So he doesn’t let go of Akashi, short nails digging into Akashi's skin, flesh pressing flesh and meeting the resistance of those goddamn muscles, not so outlandishly visible but packed on him all the time, the reason he can jump what looks like two meters in the air and dunk on all of them, the reason he always walks as if he’s consciously carrying the weight of himself. Mayuzumi’s greedy, but at least he doesn’t pretend not to be.  
  
He can tell Akashi’s mask is slipping, caked with sweat from behind. But there’s probably another mask beneath it, maybe colored a different way, easier for people to believe it’s the real Akashi (if there is such a thing). But hiding is addicting; Mayuzumi knows that all too well, and even Akashi’s not brave enough to rip off such a comfortably commanding mask and show the reality of his skin underneath.


	33. liuhimu, so easy

This is so easy sometimes, in ways it shouldn’t be. It makes Tatsuya distrustful, wary, more than usual, but he doesn’t know what to be wary of. He can’t be wary of Wei, open and straightforward, Wei who takes everything at face value, who takes Tatsuya at face value but still ends up seeing exactly what’s underneath, tugging Tatsuya’s covers loose and throwing an arm over Tatsuya’s bare skin, hugging him close as he looks, like he’s plunging down into the ocean from a cliff and hasn’t realized how deep it goes—and doesn’t care, because it’s still exactly what he wants.   
  
It’s a different kind of confidence than the one Tatsuya has, saving his shots until he’s sure they’ll go in, practicing so he can be sure almost always, never showing anything he makes until it’s complete. Wei jumps right in, his ideas messy and half-finished, doesn’t necessarily consider the long game or the what-if. Like it’s so simple, and even if it’s not he’ll muddle through okay, and he tugs Tatsuya forward into the hazy tangle before Tatsuya can realize, before he can decide to be cautious.  
  
“How do you feel?” Wei says, spooning Tatsuya closer, hand resting on Tatsuya’s stomach, moving with Tatsuya’s breath.   
  
He kisses Tatsuya’s ear and Tatsuya exhales carefully.  
  
“Good,” he says, because he does.  
  
Because despite everything, despite how this is not how he would do things if he was taking the lead, it does feel good, being pulled along a little too fast, a joyride like taking a stolen motorbike down the mountain in the wrong gear, picking up speed until he forgets all about crashing, just the wind on his face. It’s that they’re tangled in a web but Wei’s hand is stuck to his, Wei’s fingers deliberately around his hand, that he’s tangled up in Wei.   
  
“Me, too,” says Wei, fingers brushing over Tatsuya’s ribs, and Tatsuya can’t hold back a shudder in delight.  
  
Wei smiles against his skin, and it’s not bad to let him in like this, this much. It’s like Tatsuya had stretched to meet him before he knew he wanted to, before he knew he could, like he’s a cat and Wei’s a warm spot on the kitchen floor, all over him like this. Wei pulls the covers a little bit tighter around them.  
  
“Go to sleep,” he says, nosing the back of Tatsuya’s hair.  
  
Tatsuya hums and covers Wei’s hand with his own.


	34. mayuaka, placate

Even invisibility can be a facade, the stoic nothingness belying something more beneath. It’s not necessarily something dark or twisted, for someone like Mayuzumi who takes great pains to imagine himself as profound, like a hero, ordinary but not too ordinary, a little darker and more cynical, it might be the opposite. Or it might be nothing masking nothing, mystery to disguise shallowness, but that’s not Mayuzumi’s case. Akashi can see that part of him well enough.  
  
It’s different than Kuroko, whose own self-importance had taken a different turn; Mayuzumi’s bitter in a different way, long-practiced and set in his bones, not reactionary. It’s stupid to compare the two when his dick is in Mayuzumi’s mouth, when his fingers are fisted in Mayuzumi’s soft, neat hair, when he’d never wanted that with Kuroko, even at the end (though thinking about it doesn’t seem like betrayal now, or even betrayal’s next of kin). Mayuzumi is indeed an upgrade, physically and emotionally and in terms of what he is. Shadow, role player, teammate, and this, too, beyond the court.   
  
“I wonder if you’re just doing this to placate me about minutes,” Mayuzumi grumbles, half-asleep on Akashi’s bed.  
  
Akashi doesn’t placate that way, and Mayuzumi knows it. Akashi doesn’t need him that much; in the end they’re all expendable like that. This, though, is because he wants it, because they both do, because he can see straight through Mayuzumi’s facade of indifferent and above it all, to the messy want within, and Akashi likes what he sees there enough to want more. It’s got everything and nothing to do with dribbling the ball across the court, with light passes and straight shots from beyond the line. If Mayuzumi had wanted minutes he could have been the ace of some shitty fourth-rate team somewhere and never been to the Winter Cup, but his ambitions lie beyond that, foolish fantasies he’d entertained about stealing minutes from someone with prestige. And so maybe he doesn’t mean those kinds of words, but somewhere inside him he does.   
  
But even though he hides it, constructing his facade of another face in the crowd, blank grey eyes like gravel in Akashi’s driveway, he’s not particularly ashamed of wanting. Not glory, not Akashi, not anything, really. It’s nowhere near his best quality, but it just might hold the most appeal; it just might be the one Akashi can tug on the most, that lets him reach even deeper inside of Mayuzumi than he can see.


	35. aokuro, hurt

Aomine was hurting; that much had been clear. Kuroko hadn’t needed to see him crying, hadn’t needed to see his tears mixing with the raindrops to know how ripped raw Aomine had been, how much the distance had been like he’d fallen upwards off a cliff, as if the moon had swung too close to the earth and pulled him upwards like the tides in its gravity. He could see that, more visible at the time than Kuroko had been himself.   
  
But that didn’t mean Aomine had to hurt him back, biting the pressure point where he knew it would hurt the most, saying the words that rejected Kuroko as a basketball player, as a person, a friend, a crush. He could have said something else, anything else; even something untrue like that he’d hated Kuroko would have felt better (a known lie, the hurt Kuroko could have wrapped himself in, not like the sorrow that twists around him like rope and stuffs itself in his throat, a statement too empty for that). But this had cut to the bone like a bullet straight into his skin.  
  
Kuroko would fall asleep thinking about the feeling of Aomine’s hands, warm and rough, in his, about Aomine’s mouth cautious against his lips, the kisses that never led to anything but that had felt right and real, even when Aomine had begun to pull away on the court. He could still pull Kuroko forward, backward, to a standstill here; they were still together, connected by flesh-on-flesh sensations. And that had been enough until it hadn’t been anymore, until this had fallen apart, too.  
  
Kuroko’s not going to be back, not if he can help it. Aomine’s still been carrying that hurt, forcing it on others, choking all that Kuroko cares about (Ogiwara, basketball, Momoi, this team) until there’s nothing left, like Aomine’s destroyed it all because he can’t be satisfied until they’re both wrecked, like he doesn’t want to be alone in this. Kuroko wishes he’d told Aomine he’d hoped he was happy, but it wouldn’t have come out bitter enough before he was too angry to tell him, not as bitter as he feels right now, like concentrated coffee without sugar.   
  
They had been happy together, once, and it seems like so long ago now. But there’s no use thinking about it, no use missing the things that won’t come back, the things he’s better off without.


	36. aokisehimu, hungover brunch

The New York summer can basically be condensed into hot garbage, the smell of it rotting in the sun and haze and humidity, the grime sticking to the bottoms of their feet, the sound of the street cleaners in the mornings, diesel engines and brushes on concrete and asphalt, their efforts and keeping it at bay completely futile (Tatsuya always says something about his tax dollars at work here, and, well, he’s not wrong).  
  
It’s better than stubbornly sulking out the summer in separate parts of the country, or Daiki going back to Tokyo by himself; Tatsuya’s place is hardly neutral ground but it’s maybe close enough to making all three of them happy. Tatsuya, city kid that he is, has everything within walking distance; Daiki gets a river view and parks and air conditioning to sleep in; Ryouta gets expensive brunch he drags them all out to after they’re hungover from watching movies on the couch and emptying out a case of beer and a handle of vodka between them.   
  
The light’s too bright; Daiki’s shielding his eyes under the brim of his hat and debating taking some more Advil. Tatsuya’s wearing sunglasses and leaning a little on Daiki’s shoulder; it’s too fucking hot and they’re right on the sidewalk but he’s too pretty when he acts this cute not to let him get away with it (he’d let Tatsuya get away with murder; Ryouta would make sure there was blood on Daiki’s hands, too). Ryouta is all cheerful and perky and unaffected; maybe idiots can catch colds but maybe they don’t get hungover. Daiki forgets the trail of the adage in his mind, takes another sip of his mimosa (probably not good for him like this, deepens the crater in his diet, but hey, he can keep it down and it seems to be settling his stomach a little bit). He wants to feed Ryouta a few of the french fries from Tatsuya’s plate, let Ryouta lick the salt from his fingers (he shoots Ryouta a glare for not letting them get a table inside in the dark but he moves his head too quickly and, ow).   
  
It’s Tatsuya who sticks a fry into Ryouta’s mouth across the table, quick enough so that Daiki nearly misses it, but then there’s a fry stuck between RYouta’s slightly-parted lips and then he chomps down on it.  
  
“Eggs?” Ryouta says, waving his fork at the twenty-six dollar benedict still unfinished on his plate.  
  
Daiki’s still not that hungry, but he doesn’t really want to let it go to waste. He shrugs Tatsuya off his shoulder and stabs some on the end of his fork; the soggy English muffin breaks off easily. Tatsuya laughs, taking another sip of beer, moving his bare, probably-already-dirt-caked foot up Daiki’s bare ankle under the table.


	37. susasaku, bento

Sakurai makes Susa a bento, arranges the vegetables carefully, the rice in the shape of a basketball with seaweed as the details. He slices the meat carefully, rejects the first one as too sloppy but saves that cut for his own lunchbox. Susa usually buys whatever disgusting slop the cafeteria serves, complains about it with Imayoshi; Sakurai’s sure this won’t be an inconvenience.  
  
Susa seems genuinely surprised when Sakurai approaches him, tentative; he smiles softly, not at all the way he looks on the court, serious and intense even in practice. It’s gentle, the way Sakurai’s caught him looking at basketball magazines when they arrive in the mail (not that Sakurai’s looking on purpose; he’s just happened to see Susa and get caught in the look on his face).   
  
“You really didn’t have to,” he says. “You always do it for yourself and Aomine, right?”  
  
Sakurai nods. “But I wanted—that is, you always eat from the cafeteria, Senpai.”  
  
“Lots of people do,” says Susa. “But this is a treat. Thanks.”  
  
It’s a dismissal; Sakurai recognizes it as such and he can’t do that again—but he thinks about it sometimes, when maybe he shouldn’t, when he and Aomine are eating on the roof with Momoi again, the look on Susa’s face, how good he’d said it was. It’s no use pining for an older guy, a guy who’s got his sights set on the future. It never works out even in manga, but still, Sakurai’s feelings don’t disappear, even after Susa retires from the team. Still, they worry at him like a test question he knows he’d gotten wrong, like the regret of saying something he hadn’t meant, like not hearing back from someone when he doesn’t know where they are.  
  
He doesn’t mean to confess at graduation, but he does it anyway, a rush of words to his mouth like blood away from his head when he gets up from a handstand, the burden of all of his feelings shot forward onto Susa’s shoulders. And then, of course, he starts crying, not the cute cry of a shoujo hero or the manly tears of an action protagonist, but inelegant blubbering he can barely see through. He doesn’t know Susa’s about to hug him until he does, cedar smell and warm arms around Sakurai’s back.  
  
“Hey,” Susa says. “You should have said sooner.”  
  
Sakurai’s wearing a stain into Susa’s uniform blazer but can barely talk coherently enough to apologize; Susa waits for him. He doesn’t square his shoulders or push Sakurai off, and that’s enough for Sakurai to raise his head when he can and look Susa in the face.  
  
Susa’s eyes are a little red, too; he smiles at Sakurai, not pityingly.  
  
“Better late than never, huh? If you still want me,” says Susa.  
  
(That they’re both crying for their first kiss means they both decide it doesn’t count.)


	38. momoriko, determined

Satsuki waits outside the locker room for Riko, mindlessly searching up stats on her phone. She doesn’t need them; she’s got her saved searches on her computer and she’s got everything she needs in her mind, all the up to date scouting reports and strategic analysis. But the opposing coach is yet another middle-aged man, yet another person too set in his ways to take too many gambles, invested more in his job security than the performance of the team.  
  
Riko steps out, pink whistle swinging from her neck, and Satsuki is already transfixed by her, all over again, like watching from high up on the bleachers from where her vantage isn’t that great and Riko’s tiny, even compared to the shorter than average (for a high school basketball player) members of her team. But her every movement had been clear, the pointing of her finger, the trust pushed from the end of her hands, carried in her voice. Her decisions, her gambles (but are they really gambles when the risk is so calculated as to hold very little true chance of failure?) are what has driven Seirin forward, closer to victory than they ought to be.  
  
“Lost again,” she says, voice dry and hard.  
  
“Your boys had no business competing.”  
  
“We could compete; we could win,” says Riko, and it’s that kind of determination—one step leads to another that leads to moving mountains with the strength of her mind—that Satsuki adores and admires about her.   
  
She lets Satsuki take her hand, callouses from gripping the pencil too tight on her slim fingers, polish chipping off her thumb. She looks up at Satsuki, eyes still blazing, and this is what basketball is all about; this is what all of it’s for. The boys on the court think it’s about them, and it is, in a way—but it’s more about this, more about the moments between, the setup and the payoff. They could shoot and pass all they want, messy and trending toward entropy, but with Riko pulling the strings the scene becomes electric and Satsuki can’t tear her eyes away.   
  
“Next one,” Satsuki says.  
  
Riko sighs, heavy but still cute. “Already prepping.”  
  
But all of these matches, every goddamn one, is prep for the next time they face each other, staring down from opposite sides of the paint, school shoes toeing the waxed floors, blowing each other’s strategies to smithereens and reassembling the pieces into battering rams as quickly as they can.


	39. imahana, was it good

Their offices are close enough together that they can meet up for lunch every day if they want to. Some days they’re too caught up in work to get the free time; some days Makoto stands Shouichi up just because he feels like it, but unless it’s raining Shouichi enjoys the park well enough by himself, even if it’s always better with good company.   
  
Shouichi’s no artist but between them he’s the better cook, a little more patient with the rice cooker and getting the meat exactly tender. And maybe it’s more self-indulgent than anything, but he likes to make little designs in the bento, little rice versions of the two of them smiling up at him (Makoto tells him they look fucking creepy and ugly; Shouichi tells him he shouldn’t talk about himself that way and there’s not much in terms of getting Makoto all wound up and huffy more easily than this). He’d sent a picture to Susa once; Susa had said it was about on the same level as Shouichi’s drawings which really had been quite rude of him.  
  
Makoto stabs the rice-Shouichi in the eye, breaking his edible glasses, almost as if he’d rather get grains of rice everywhere than actually eat them. Still, if he’s going to waste Shouichi’s hard work Shouichi’s not going to let it completely go to shit; he leans over and steals a piece of meat from the untouched corner of the lunchbox.  
  
“Oi, make yourself more if you want it,” says Makoto, and then he tries to stab Shouichi with the chopstick (at least they’re plastic; wooden ones would probably actually give Shouichi splinters).   
  
The rest of their lunch is relatively peaceful, even if Shouichi counts Makoto kicking at his ankles as he shovels food into his mouth.  
  
“Was it good, Makoto?” Shouichi always asks, leaning into his space the way he knows Makoto hates.  
  
“It was okay,” says Makoto. “I was hungry.”  
  
He blushes more easily than a teenager with a bottle of vodka in him, and Shouichi grins. Sometimes he pokes Makoto on the nose, when he wants to hear him yell; sometimes he’s content with this and goes off to buy his can of coffee from the vending machine so he can keep going through the grind of the afternoon and (hopefully not) evening.  
  
Makoto pulls him in for a kiss by the tie; he complains about how cheap Shouichi is that he won’t buy real coffee but still licks the bitterness from the inside of Shouichi’s lips, and aren’t actions supposed to speak louder than words?


	40. aokaga, competitive

Aomine is a damn good rival to have; there’s no doubt about it. They wear the same shoe size even though they prefer different styles; they’ve both grown up playing streetball on city courts against people they probably shouldn’t have been facing; they’re evenly matched in terms of skill and strength. And yet, there’s something more, something at the very tip, like a basketball just skipping over Taiga’s finger when he tries to twirl it (Tatsuya was always the one who was good at that, not him). There’s something after this, beyond this endless string of one-on-ones, the wins and losses they’ve already lost count of (because in this matchup, it’s not really the numbers that matter).   
  
Taiga likes Aomine as a person well enough, he supposes. He’s a good teammate; he’s a mostly-good friend to Kuroko; even if he has no sense of personal boundaries he’s not a bad guy. But that’s not it, either; Taiga doesn’t want to be his friend. He wants—the shadow across Aomine’s toned arms, the way he stretches and cocks his head and Taiga’s face starts to flush because he’d been looking, the first name that threatens to fall from Taiga’s mouth but always stays put behind his teeth. He wants to kick Aomine’s ass; he wants to kiss him senseless; he wants to fist his hand in Aomine’s hair now that it’s long enough for that.   
  
It doesn’t make sense; this is tangled into and altogether separate from the basketball they play, the respect Taiga has for Aomine as an opponent. But it’s no use trying to quantify and categorize; that’s not going to stop his feelings from spilling over and flooding everything, every time they end up eating together with mutual acquaintances, every time they end up crammed onto the bleachers at some tournament watching an opponent together (and it would be so easy for Taiga to hook his pinky around Aomine’s, so easy but impossible at once).  
  
He might as well come out and say it, though; he can’t let it just weigh him down and if they have to get past it they will. Aomine knows the value of a good basketball game and even if he wants nothing to do with Taiga’s feelings, he won’t stop playing against him. Taiga hopes, anyway.  
  
“I like you,” he says, leaning against the fence, halfway out of breath.  
  
There’s no response; he looks over and Aomine’s eyes are wide and his mouth is open and fuck, Taiga passes a hand over his face (there’s no way he can really explain this).  
  
“I liked you first,” says Aomine, like he’s trying to be all smooth and—please, but wait, this means, hold up.  
  
“Asshole,” Taiga manages, and leans in to kiss him.  
  
Yeah, they’re going to have to work on this part.


	41. liuhimu, heat

Akita winters are cold, but the summers are hot and humid, long days that start with fog that seems to burn off but really dissipates into the air and clouds the outdoor courts in the park. Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise, some kind of training mechanism (Himuro probably thinks of it like that at least) and if nothing else it gets the local kids away from their games that turn into shouting matches about who doesn’t know the rules (and Himuro never lets Liu kick them off the courts; he’s soft with kids the way you can’t be if you have four younger brothers to take care of and keep from burning the house down).   
  
It’s too gross to keep playing for as long as Himuro wants to, shot after shot without seeming to tire unless Liu looks a little closer (and he’s getting to the point where he knows where to look for where Himuro’s straining at the seams, beginning to push his limits beyond where he needs to go for just a practice match, a session Liu’s not taking too seriously). Sweat is pouring donw his face and neck, plastering his hair against his skin; his eye is blinking more often and his breath is coming shorter, harder. Liu blocks his shot and gets the ball before Himuro does, holding it out of his reach.  
  
“Hey,” says Himuro.  
  
“Hey,” Liu echoes, tapping Himuro on the top of the head with the ball. “Let’s take a break.”  
  
Himuro weighs the option, as if he wants to tell Liu to go ahead but he’ll keep shooting (as if Liu would let that happen). Liu checks the ball toward the fence, dropping his arms around Himuro’s shoulders and staring into his face. He'll drag Himuro over to the water fountain beyond the court if he has to, kiss him to distraction (though that’s a benefit for him).  
  
Himuro acquiesces, finally; he lets Liu lean against him as they sit on the ground, their sweat mingling, still against their skin (the air is too thick to evaporate it). Himuro’s fingers twitch, like he’s practicing the release of an invisible basketball into the air, making it hang up right where he wants it. So Liu leans over and kisses him; he’s not going to let basketball win out every second of their time together. Some of it ought to belong to him completely, even if Himuro himself doesn’t.


	42. kagahimu, the wrong conclusion

It’s better off this way. Both of them are better off this way, with nothing and everything between them. Every time Tatsuya closes his eyes he sees Taiga, holding back, trying to lose; Taiga, shackled by his place next to Tatsuya. He doesn’t need that; he doesn’t need Tatsuya holding him back, not when he’s this fucking brilliant of a player, not when he maybe could have blown past Tatsuya a long time ago and maybe he’d been holding back the whole time, subconsciously, out of respect for the same role Tatsuya’s been trying so hard to protect, the same role that destroyed itself, and any bond between them.  
  
It had been a chain, the one around their necks, the one Tatsuya slides, guilt in his eyes, over toward the jeweler; the question of why he’d want to repair such a cheap thing does not fall from her lips but Tatsuya sees it on her face. It hadn’t been cheap, their bond; it had come with the price of that kind of limit. The price Tatsuya had paid for it was the price it took to dissolve it, his fist and Taiga’s face, the words that were almost as irrelevant as they were important. Either way this had ended, they couldn’t be brothers; either way Tatsuya is unworthy of that kind of title. Regardless, even.  
  
(He pushes down the thoughts of how his feelings have been less than brotherly for a while, the way he has to look up slightly to see Taiga’s face, the baby fat falling away from his cheeks, the muscles defining themselves more daily, the confidence in his hands, larger by the day, gripping a basketball.)  
  
This is what he had to do; this is what had to happen. Tatsuya repeats it to himself, again and again; it doesn’t make it hurt any less (he deserves to hurt; he deserves to feel the pain for Taiga all over again). But still, repeating it doesn’t make things better for Taiga, wherever he is out there. It doesn’t stop basketball from feeling empty, Tatsuya feeling alone on the court no matter who’s on his team, more alone than if he’s just playing by himself, going one on one. It doesn’t stop the shots from feeling like they don’t matter, just blankness falling through the hoop, insubstantial, like maybe the way this bond was all along if it was so easily erased.


	43. momoriko, team

Satsuki had never played organized basketball before college, but she’s hardly inexperienced. Years of streetball, games with friends, managing, and immersing herself in somehow driving the orange sphere down the court toward the hoop have trained her well. So she hasn’t implemented most of this stuff herself, done it in more than demos--but she’s athletic enough to catch on quickly.  
  
It helps that Riko’s willing to practice extra with her, out of some combination of her own sheer drive to be the best and wanting to spend time with Satsuki and obligation to herself and Satsuki to have a girlfriend as good as she can be. And if they play the same position half the time, Riko would rather create her own competition than go without it, have someone alongside her pushing her to push herself.  
  
They switch out at the half, Riko coming back in from off the bench, taking over the one. There’s something about the way she looks in a basketball uniform that’s so right, like she should have been there from the get-go but had made do with standing on the sidelines, pressing the switches on the control panel. She can do that from the floor, too, though; she runs the plays and passes the ball out, drives to the net and takes her own shots when she sees them, her eyes analyzing chances and percentages and holes and flaws, which defender she should let try to block her because she’s got the worst jump and the slowest reflexes.  
  
Satsuki comes back in on the wing when they’re down five, six to go. Riko’s sweaty fist bumps hers; Riko’s eyes are blazing with a fire that’s died back a little bit but just needs some more fuel, and Satsuki’s been ready to pour it on since before the quarter started. And if she has to do that by stealing the ball, dribbling it down, and passing it to Riko wide open, well. She loves to watch Riko’s jumper, and on the court like this, a few meters away at the most, it’s there in all its glory, ar flat but not too flat to get over the fruitless block from too far back, spinning off her fingers in the air with just the right velocity, hitting its peak and falling to hit the backboard and bounce through the hoop. They still need another three points to tie it, a few more possessions to grab the lead back. But Satsuki’s never been so sure they will.


	44. kikasa, merfolk au

Kise’s tail glimmers in the muted sunlight below the water, his scales almost prismatic. That’s just good genes, which aren’t something to sneeze at, but to be proud of that the way Kise is isn’t to be proud of something he’s worked for or achieved. It’s a little bit vexing, like the way he’s so good at so many things, cracking open clams with his bare hands and catching fish to eat before they slip through his fingers, pulling kelp straight out of the beds without getting too tangled. It’s not like Kasamatsu’s been watching him and giving him special attention; it’s just. He notices these things.  
  
“You’re really cute, you know?” Kise says, smacking Kasamatsu’s tail with his own.  
  
It’s too intimate a gesture for their relationship now, almost; Kasamatsu elbows him in the stomach.  
  
“I’ll bruise, Senpai,” says Kise. “That’s mean.”  
  
“Deal with it,” says Kasamatsu (he’s dealt with bruises of his own, the circle scar from a shark fight on his shoulder, the fights with other mertribes, the stupidity of humans above them; Kise’s got to learn how to fight that shit or he’ll never survive, no matter how adaptable he is to change, malleable like water in a jar).  
  
Kise slides his arm around Kasamatsu’s waist, warm skin on skin welcome as they head deeper into the ocean. Kasamatsu knows he should throw Kise off; he’s training him the wrong way and if he lets him get away with it once Kise won’t stop until Kasamatsu lets him again (on the other hand, even if Kasamatsu slapped him away every time he’d just keep trying). Kise’s humming some song under his breath; something he’d picked up off a while. The sound doesn’t travel far in the water, only to Kasamatsu’s ears, and Kasamatsu tries not to seem too pleased about that (even though maybe he is).  
  
“You want this, right?” says Kise.  
  
“Want what?” says Kasamatsu.  
  
Kise kisses him, arm still around his waist, saltwater-caked lips still sweet on Kasamatsu’s mouth. Kasamatsu flicks his fins at Kise’s tail when they break apart, half-baked gesture he knows will do nothing about the grin on Kise’s face or the fact that Kise’s won.  
  
“Don’t push it, you,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.  
  
“Okay,” Kise says, cheery singsong tune to his voice.  
  
If Kasamatsu had been able to delude himself into thinking Kise would listen, that would be enough to convince him otherwise. Still, though, maybe the places Kise wants to push this aren’t all that bad.


	45. aokaga, thrift shop

They’re not really looking to go shopping when Kagami pulls Aomine into an out-of-the-way thrift store. Fashion’s always been more of Kagami’s thing, but Aomine can amuse himself looking at cracked shot glasses and old stuffed animals, mismatched shoes with the laces off.   
  
“Check it out,” says Kagami, practically throwing a shirt at Aomine’s face.  
  
Aomine catches it before it hits him; it’s tacky as hell, striped with neon green and orange. He eyes Kagami; Kagami’s grinning.  
  
“You want me to be seen with you when you wear this shit?” says Aomine.  
  
“No, you should wear it,” says Kagami. “It would look good on you.”  
  
“I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not,” says Aomine. “But everything looks good on me, so.”  
  
Kagami’s still grinning, like he’s fucking won something, and fuck that. Aomine tosses the shirt back at him and rifles through the closest rack. There’s a shirt with flamingos printed on it that’s way too small, a navy dress shirt with white stitching that would actually look pretty cute on Kagami, and there. What looks like something out of a European period drama turned into somebody’s creative project, a cream top with ruffles down the front, sleeves ripped off and fraying at the shoulders.  
  
“It’s you,” says Aomine.   
  
“What the fuck,” says Kagami.  
  
“And it’s only a thousand yen. That’s quite a bargain.”  
  
“For a thousand yen I can get three t-shirts I’d actually wear.”  
  
“Are you criticizing my taste? Damn,” says Aomine. “What kind of boyfriend are you?”  
  
“The kind who’s not afraid to tell you when your taste is shitty.”  
  
“You started it,” says Aomine. “That shirt was uncalled for.”  
  
“I still think you’d look good in it,” says Kagami, and Aomine can’t quite tell if he’s being serious or not. “Plus it’s only 750.”  
  
“I bet I could haggle them down to 750 for three t-shirts,” says Aomine.  
  
“I don’t think this shop works that way,” says Kagami.  
  
Aomine sticks out his tongue in the mirror, continuing to look through the rack of tops. He’s still deciding between a monstrous black linen thing with a ripped-up back or a polyester v-neck shirt, grey and maroon and way too shiny, when Kagami comes back. He’s wearing a stupid fake fur coat that is so tacky it almost crosses back around to looking kind of good on him, arms crossed over his front.  
  
“Fifteen hundred,” says Kagami. “Maybe I’ll let you wear it sometime.”


	46. aokuro, getting back together

It’s easier to be on the same court now, easier after they’d had to force it a little for that game together. It’s easier now that they’re not directly competing; they don’t want that. They don’t need that, and they were always better as a tag team, the two of them against the basketball world, against all the other demons on the court. Now that Tetsu’s team isn’t so competitive (which in and of itself is a bad thing; Tetsu deserves better than that even though he already won the whole damn thing) and Daiki’s still is, now that they’ve settled all the scores between them--but that’s not true, is it?  
  
There’s that other thing, the thing Daiki doesn’t like to put a name to, sitting between them like an extra person, like a heavy package on the bus, a basketball held half on both of their thighs. There’s the way it was for maybe a month at Teikou before everything had gone to shit, too little to have too many fond memories, especially with seeing the explosion on the horizon, the nuclear fallout coming for their faces (and yet). Too little to have much of anything to go back to, an idea, a concept, a state of being that had been scrapped before it ever came to be anything more than half-formed. And yet.  
  
Maybe the timing’s better this go-round; maybe the timing’s still absolute shit but maybe they’re better-equipped to deal with a crisis, rather than pulling into their own shells before lashing out with talons and edges. Maybe the timing doesn’t matter, and maybe the only thing that does is how much Daiki wants to kiss Tetsu now.  
  
“Tetsu?” Daiki says, trying not to let the uncertainty creep too much into his voice.  
  
“Aomine-kun?” says Tetsu.  
  
“Do you ever think. Maybe you and me, again? Like we could be together?”  
  
(Awkward as fuck, Daiki wants to bury his head in the asphalt court.)  
  
“Okay,” says Tetsu.  
  
He pushes his hand over, next to Daiki’s on the ground, smudged with dirt. That’s pretty bold of him, right away; Daiki pushes his own hand closer, shoving his last two fingers over the tops of Tetsu’s. Tetsu looks up from below his eyelashes, like some demure old-fashioned maiden, and fuck it. Daiki leans in and kisses him, and it’s everything he’s been waiting for, everything he’d missed after barely having, and so much more than that.


	47. kikuro, thinking out loud

The happiness they share is quiet, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t real. It’s not that they’re quiet people; Kise’s loud enough for three himself, especially when he spots Kuroko from across the room and yells his name. But Kuroko’s stopped minding the people staring at him; it’s like Kise sees him and Kise wants everyone else to look, too, the way they never do, catching Kise’s line of sight and finding Kuroko at the other end, where he’d been the whole time.  
  
“You gave me hope, you know,” Kise says.  
  
His voice is softer than the fuzzy socks he’d worn, one of Kuroko’s earlier knitting projects, too baggy in the ankles but falling down over the high tops of Kise’s basketball sneakers when he wears them out (he still gets complimented on them, and he’s asked Kuroko for another pair just like them, but unlike Kise Kuroko can’t just repeat the same mistakes verbatim, it’s always a little bit different). He snuggles closer to Kuroko on the couch, almost splashing the tea from his mug on Kuroko’s yarn.   
  
“Hope? For what?” says Kuroko.  
  
“Remember high schol? The game against Shougo-kun? When you said you believed in me.”  
  
Kuroko nods. “I did.”  
  
HIs needles click against each other, the slow and steady pace completes another row of what is soon to be a dog sweater (Nigou doesn’t need one with his fur and the mild Tokyo winter, but Kuroko dotes on him anyway and Kise loves to egg him on).   
  
“That was a long time ago,” says Kuroko. “Why now?”  
  
Kise shrugs. “Just thinking out loud, I guess.”  
  
Kuroko’s smiling at the ball of mint green yarn in his lap; maybe he’s thinking about a few years ago (maybe he’s thinking about winning the Winter Cup, how special Seirin’s team had been, almost magical and blessed). Maybe he’s thinking about beating Kise, which, while fair, still kind of stings. But still, before then, it had been like all of his determination, all of his time, had been beating on a brick wall for some indication of how Kuroko had felt, the indifferent words that had never quite pulled away enough to yank the hope out of Kise’s reach (and Kise’s not nearly as much of an optimist as people think he is, as he pretends to be). That had been, even outside of the basketball court, even outside of beginning to unlock his potential there, like a beacon. Kuroko says he’s the shadow, but he’s really closer to the light than he likes to admit.


	48. komori, angst

This is all a game to Moriyama, like basketball, like the racing video games Kasamatsu kicks both of their asses at when they stay over at his house on weekends. It’s just a mindless distraction--well that’s being a little self-deprecating, even more than usual. Kobori ought to give them both a little more credit when it comes to this. Sure, Moriyama’s only treating Kobori like practice for a girl someday, just another step on the way up, but he’s paying a lot of attention.  
  
He asks what Kobori likes; he lets Kobori spoon him sometimes (Kobori’s wondering how many girls this close to two meters Moriyama’s planning on dating, and maybe he’d say Moriyama has a type but if he does it’s “is a girl” and that’s about it; he seems to think they’re all pretty and he’ll go on and one about different shapes of wrists sometimes until Kobori’s not sure this is just another one of his jokes that’s gone too far). He remembers, the small things like kisses on his collarbone and half-and-half in his coffee, the bigger things that all add up to the things that make Moriyama happy, letting him pay for dinner and feel like a gentleman, letting Moriyama open the door for him. It’s not the act; Kobori would do the same for Moriyama (his parents raised him polite, after all); it’s the way Moriyama preens afterward like a good bird that makes Kobori want to kiss him on the forehead.  
  
Even with all of this, he can’t get away with it, so he doesn’t. He saves the kisses for watching movies on the couch, for when they take it to the bed and Moriyama tries to work on his truly awful dirty talk (despite his pretty face, his lovely voice, his things that make him Moriyama, it’s never going to work when he talks about yeah baby I want to be inside you that’s so good before Kobori’s even got his shirt unbuttoned) and Kobori’s just trying to shut him up. Part of him doesn’t want Moriyama to get better, though; if he does there’s no reason to keep doing this. He’ll be ready for the world of women, a world he considers oh-so-mysterious, a world that would be so lucky to have him, luckier than Kobori feels right now to just have part of him, this trial run.   
  
It hurts; there’s no doubt about it. But maybe it’s the best Kobori’s going to get.


	49. nijihimu, mirage

One of the first English words Tatsuya teaches him is “mirage”. Something out of place, appearing closer than it really is, a trick of the light, insubstantial. It’s the word he uses to describe that shot he does, the ball vanishing before it hits the hoop; it’s more than that, though. It’s clear to Shuuzou he’d chosen that word, that kind of shot in the first place, for a set of reasons, opaque to Shuuzou as they are. Maybe it’s the way he sees himself, seemingly-close, or maybe, looking at the chain around his neck, he’s reaching for something in the distance, hanging just out of reach.   
  
But he is that, the always out of reach, darting out of Shuuzou’s grasp when he should be, as if there’s something in the LA air fucking with Shuuzou’s depth perception. Like he’ll be able to drag a smile out of Tatsuya, one that reaches below the surface of his face, like the smile he gives a kid he’s been a little more patient with than he has to and he’s rewarded with a perfect layup off the kid’s unsteady hands. Shuuzou’s response is pathetically Pavlovian; he wants it again; he needs it again. It’s like he’ll do anything to just get that from Tatsuya, a ripple, some show that he’s gotten below that poker face layer, the mirage he projects forward.  
  
But Shuuzou can’t wait it out forever; he’ll dig in his heels but even if this is going nowhere he’s going to push it forward, even if that means it’s going to careen toward a ditch (there’s still time for him to turn it, mirages or no).   
  
“Hey, wait,” Shuuzou says, and this is maybe not the best time but maybe there isn’t one.  
  
Tatsuya turns, eyebrow quirking upward; his hands are shoved in his pockets and he looks so. Shuuzou can’t say; he’s not going to trot out a whole thesaurus worth of hackneyed adjectives even if it’s going to improve his vocabulary. He leans in and kisses Tatsuya’s mouth.  
  
He tastes like sweat and diet soda, less substantial than Shuuzou had imagined. His lips press back, deeper; he wants this, too (doesn’t mean they’re not still going to end up crashing, but Shuuzou can’t see this as anything less than a positive). And maybe he’d expected this to illuminate, but it does the opposite; he’s stepping closer to the mirage but it’s moving with him, remaining out of reach.


	50. kagahimu, leaving is harder

Staying is hard, but leaving is harder. Leaving would be for the best, if anything is at this point--but it would have been better if they hadn’t even started, if Tatsuya had been strong enough to say no, to let him hurt a little then, to not give in to his own self-indulgence, the part of him that said maybe they could make each other happy. Maybe he’s doing okay right now; Taiga’s happy with what little Tatsuya can give when he’s overextending himself, but soon enough he’s going to snap. Soon enough he won’t be able to keep up the facade of being who Tatsuya wants him to be.   
  
It’s like his words are knives, like his heart is a cannon blasting ballistic missiles out of it, as if Tatsuya’s just some hollowed-out shell hurling shrapnel that taiga’s lucky enough to dodge. But the fire’s going to get worse; this is going to turn into some nuclear wasteland and even if Taiga avoids the blasts, if Tatsuya tries to contain them, he’ll get radiation poisoning. It’s better to cut off the stump of this relationship than leave it and let it poison Taiga through, ruin him by association. Maybe it’s presumptuous of Tatsuya to think he can hurt this much, that he has that power, but he’s hurt Taiga that bad, worse, before. He knows the power he holds, too much when all he really wants is control. Of himself, of anything that could hurt Taiga, of the situation.  
  
“I can’t,” Tatsuya says, pushing Taiga off, weak, his body betraying him in the hopes he know will be realized, of Taiga pulling him back in.  
  
“Hey,” Taiga says, voice quiet and hoarse. “Tatsuya.”  
  
His hand is soothing on Tatsuya’s shoulder but it disrupts Tatsuya’s surface anyway, paradoxically; he wants to cry and scream but he gulps down a breath of air and tries not to dwell too much on how good Taiga smells.  
  
“I hurt you,” Tatsuya says.  
  
“You hurt yourself, too,” says Taiga, as if that’s comparable. “I don’t want to let that happen again.”  
  
Taiga should save all of that worry and love for someone better, someone who won’t hurt either of them, someone who knows how to accept that--how can he say he doesn’t want to let it happen like it’s so easy? How can he say it with such absolute certainty? Tatsuya’s face crumples into Taiga’s shoulder; his eye is wet but he’s blinking it furiously; he’s not going to cry now.  
  
“I’ll wait for you,” Taiga says. “Just, please, let me in.”


	51. garciraki, basketball is a cruel mistress

Basketball is a cruel mistress, the kind who laughs in your face when you reach out to her, turning away and slashing a knife through your back just when you think she’s starting to love you. Masako’s been hurt so many times over, snatched-away international glory, losses taken just as her fingertips were about to close around victory, diminished minutes, forced retirement, the teams she coaches running into someone else’s Cinderella run out of nowhere or a powerful force that crumbles their defensive wall. And Alex hurts the same, maybe more, maybe differently; for her each day is seized out of the jaws of being something she shouldn’t have.   
  
Masako listens to the games she coaches on the radio while she’s grading tests, simple physical education exams that kids still flub, names of exercises and different techniques. They don’t have to do them all that well; they just have to try, but still. Alex’s game is a distraction, usually welcome but today not so much. The announcers chatter away, noting Alex’s demeanor on the floor, her gestures a blur in Masako’s mind of what she’s seen before, rolled up sleeves, toned arms pointing and moving, glasses falling down on her nose. She wants to see this for real, but she doesn’t want to see them lose as badly as they are.  
  
Their shooters aren’t shooting; their blocks sound slow and sluggish when they’re there. Turnover after turnover, substitution after substitution, nothing seems to plug the holes and Masako’s jaw clenches. She’s seen worse deficits than this at the half, worse deficits that teams have overcome. But she begins to doubt that this is that.  
  
Alex’s eyes are red when she gets home; her hair is coming a little undone from its ponytail; she looks as if she just wants to collapse but she doesn’t. She eases her way onto the couch, closing her eyes and threading her fingers through Masako. This wasn’t supposed to be the deciding game of the playoff series; Alex’s team was supposed to push through but they’d lain down and let their opponents walk all over them.   
  
“Can I get you anything? A drink?”  
  
“In a minute,” says Alex. “Just. Stay here for now.”  
  
Her voice falters; Masako holds her tightly. But even so it’s won’t be enough; basketball wounds are deep and rough, and the only way to heal them is to get back on the floor again. The offseason is long, and it’ll feel longer to Alex--but still, Masako hopes that basketball will give more than it takes from her next year.


	52. imahana, fire & gasoline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mild body horror, fire, danger elements

Hanamiya’s got oil running through his veins; his heart’s a refinery and he turns the carbon in the air to fuel, enriched gasoline instead of blood (Imayoshi had expected it to be crude the first time he’d seen Hanamiya bleed, but then a rich kid like him ought to only be made of the finest parts). He breathes out pollution, thin black smoke without a cigarette, so Imayoshi’s got to give him extra props for getting away with the good kid act for so long.   
  
“You shouldn’t stick so close to me, huh?” Imayoshi says, letting the smoke escape from under his eyelids as he cracks them open just a little.  
  
He’s never seen Hanamiya jump away so quickly; he’s never seen genuine fear written on his face like this (as much as Hanamiya’s an open book if you know where to crack open his spine, it’s always spite or disdain or interest, never this).   
  
“You could actually kill me,” Hanamiya hisses. “Don’t set a fucking basketball on fire while I’m playing.”  
  
“I know how to control myself,” Imayoshi says with a smile.  
  
They keep getting thrown together, though; it’s as if the world is conspiring (or as if the elite school basketball circuit is pretty small, which Imayoshi reckons is a lot more likely). Hanamiya sneers at Imayoshi, always; Imayoshi can smell the fuel in the air and sticks his hands deeper in his pockets lest they burst into flames right there. He’s heard of people killing for less, elemental powers gone wrong, freak accidents. Imayoshi rather likes Hanamiya; he’d rather not have him end up cooked like his sister’s favorite fish from the koi pond, boiled between his hands when he’d tried to scoop it out.  
  
And Imayoshi does know how to control himself, now, the flames he lets lick the air, escaping from his fingertips, let out when the smoke alarms are off and when there’s nothing too flammable nearby. Even then, he wonders, is it really controlled? Flames go viral, beyond him, so easily; he can call them back but they don’t always listen, hot air like a disobedient child.  
  
They sleep together; Hanamiya starts the night facing the wall at the edge of the bed but ends up in Imayoshi’s arms. Imayoshi dreams of his tongue turning to ash, flames from his eye sockets; he wakes to Hanamiya sweating out lighter fluid but no scorch marks tattooing his skin, no burned-out husk, just real and perfect flesh. Imayoshi rolls over and goes back to sleep.


	53. aomomo, angst

Satsuki’s smart, but even she’s got biases she can’t see, blind spots out of the side mirrors, something that she doesn’t check enough and one of these days she’s going to get walled off from the sides before she can swerve. She’s always trying to push Daiki into these little boxes, little boxes he’d once easily occupied, way back when they were young and carefree, catching bugs in the backyard and scraping their knees playing basketball on the street courts together. He can’t even fit into them now; he’s too big, the wrong shape; he’s long since outgrown being that optimistic kid. It’s right in front of Satsuki’s eyes; how can’t she see it?  
  
She sees him differently now, of course; she sees him as a man the way he sees her as a woman, secondary to their friendship but maybe that’s the issue on her side. Maybe it’s an issue for Daiki, too; he’d like to say he sees Satsuki for what she is, but maybe he’s not. Maybe they’re both caught chasing an image of what once was, the recreation never as good or as clear as the original. Neither of them is any good at doing things the same way twice.  
  
But still, she smiles when he shows up for practice, doesn’t needle him about goofing off in class except with clear affection (he always used to do it, staring out the window and blurting out something about the butterflies outside when they were in elementary school even). She holds his hand, but hers is a disapproving one sometimes, when he’s late, when he’s pessimistic, when he waffles on decisions. He’d make some grandiose absolute about if she really loved him, but she does. He can’t say she doesn’t, but it’s like she’s choosing to love selected parts of him, the parts she can’t separate even as he steps farther and farther away from them, the way he can’t see them on his own body anymore, a skin he’d shed that had left an image over her eyes like pixels burned into a screen.  
  
He’s sick of breaking her heart with the truth and with his anger, but he’s going to end up doing it again, or they’ll break apart on the rocks, their friendship itself perhaps in danger, the thing they’d thought was forever. But maybe they’d broken that chance, dashed that possibility already, by locking it up in their hearts, a backup copy taken too long ago, protected with a fierceness reserved for nothing else. Daiki wishes there was a good option, but right now the only one is to just keep going and brace himself for impact.


	54. kisehimu, not admirable

Tatsuya plays streetball at night. He doesn’t like Ryouta coming to his games, because he doesn’t like Ryouta watching and (probably less so) because Ryouta always attracts attention. It’s hard not to catch people’s eye, and this is basketball so of course they all know who he is, local star and all. Tatsuya retreats into the shadows, trying to keep the bitterness from spilling out of his mouth like overflowing ocean water when he’s swimming in too deep. Ryouta would admire his effort, but it’s not that hard for other people to just give it up and let it go. It’s the opposite of admirable, the way Tatsuya is.  
  
Ryouta stays with him anyway; he may not be admirable but he’s funny; even when he’s bitter and caustic he can be kind, maybe kinder than a guy like Ryouta deserves (but these things never shake out fairly; Ryouta’s never been all that concerned about that but perhaps it’s just Tatsuya rubbing off on him, how he’s always concerned about even, leveled-off glasses, be they half-empty or half-full). And he’s pretty, in a different way than Ryouta is, in a way that still captivates Ryouta long after he’d expected to get bored and leave.  
  
He can’t leave such a good thing as this, something that still satisfies, sex that still leaves him feeling full. He can’t, even if Tatsuya turns down the tickets Ryouta leaves at will call every time, even if he comes home to find Tatsuya with a glass of liquor cold from the fridge in his hands, straight vodka that doesn’t get him sloppy drunk and doesn’t get him tired enough to go to bed, either. Ryouta tries to tell him, some of these times, that it’s a compliment that he’s still taking shots like Tatsuya sometimes, that he’ll let one fly and vanish in the face of his opponents. It’s an impressive technique, and he doesn’t even need Perfect Copy for it--telling Tatsuya only makes his face harden, makes him swallow fast and turn away. And it feels good to know he gets to Tatsuya, digs into his skin beyond that calm facade, even if he does it in a million other ways every night.   
  
It feels just as good as Tatsuya’s mouth on his, pleasantly warm and numb and bitter, always bitter, a taste Tatsuya couldn’t shake off himself if he’d ever wanted to, a taste Ryouta can’t get enough of.


	55. takamido, reunion?

Midorima’s been living across the ocean for five years now, in a different world full of different people, different priorities. All he’d gotten with his college degree (well, other than an education, which to him was the most important thing) was a plane ticket to Boston and a road stretching out into the foreseeable future of basketball and only that. The NBA is like a fraternity, or maybe closer to the mafia; if you know the right people they’ll always have a job for you, assistant or broadcaster (Midorima? ha!) or lower-rung executive; Midorima might never come back.  
  
And that’s for the best, or at least for what it is; they’re not really friends anymore and it’s not like Takao’s carrying an Olympic-sized torch for him. He’s dated other people; if he ever settles down it’ll be with someone else, and it won’t be settling in any other sense. And even if he is still a little hung up, years down the line, on a relationship that hadn’t even ended with regrets other than they hadn’t figured out how to make it work before it fell apart, well. Midorima’s his first love; he only gets one of those.  
  
Midorima’s the only person he knows in Boston, and it’s kind of funny that he’s been thinking about him so much lately when he gets an invitation to an international accounting conference there. It’s not like he’s going to go and hook up with Midorima, or even see him, but on the other hand, why not ask? The third day of the four is full of things he’s not interested in or required to be at, so he might as well do some sightseeing (and if those sights include a guy who may or may not be single, well). So he sends Midorima an email and tells himself to forget about it.  
  
The response he gets is terse but clear that Midorima’s glad to hear from him, and it feels kind of like a victory, like getting Midorima to smile had back in the beginning of high school and oh, God. This is not hitting him like a wave all over again, is it? He’s never going to see Midorima after this trip (probably)--so that’s no reason not to enjoy this resurgent crush, Takao supposes. Maybe it’s nostalgia; maybe it’s his mind playing tricks on him; maybe there’s still no spark, just like there hadn’t been at the end. But maybe there is, and it’s worth taking a chance on.


	56. aokuro, cake

Kuroko’s awfully good at keeping grudges, holding them in his hands like a pass he won’t send (but Aomine supposes he’s the one who’d said he couldn’t receive them anymore). And it’s not that he holds them still, clutching as many of them as he can between his fingers; he twists them like knives under Aomine’s fingernails, ripping his hands apart to remind him that even though time has passed he hasn’t forgotten, that he’s willing to reopen old wounds and make them hurt more, scar bigger on both of them.  
  
It’s funny that Kuroko’s the one with the grudge, though, because he’s the one who’d replaced Aomine as soon as he’d seen a better option, someone fresher and a different kind of cynical, someone who’d learned to trust him. Sometimes Aomine wants to say hey, don’t, but Kagami probably won’t fuck it up in the same way, if he does at all. And their relationship isn’t as inherently messy, fraught with a sky-high mess of adolescent hormones the way Aomine’s and Kuroko’s kind of still is (okay, a little more than kind of, a little more than Aomine wants to admit).  
  
It’s like tossing the wax paper from his convenience store sandwich off the school roof, watching it flit on the wind until it blends into the pavement. Aomine can hear a voice in his head telling him not to litter, and he’s not sure if it’s Kuroko or Satsuki, not that it really matters since it’s not actually them. It’s not worth it, anyway, littering or not, tossing things in the trash or not. Kuroko just leaves them when he’s done, and Aomine can’t really blame him in his own case. It’s not worth following him, begging for forgiveness, getting on his hands and knees for just a kiss, some kind of recognition, the way Kuroko wants everyone to submit to his self-righteousness. Maybe he’s right about a lot, but that doesn’t mean he’s right about everything, and it doesn’t mean he gets to judge them all. And maybe that pettiness makes Aomine just as guilty as Kuroko, but everyone’s got their vices. If this is as bad he can do right now, he’s done a hell of a lot worse in his lifetime already.   
  
And perhaps he and Kuroko are wasted on each other, petty grudge and petty revenge, withholding from what they really want to do. But they’re the only ones who suffer for it.


	57. garciraki, domesticity

Alex pulls Masako into her lap on the couch, spoons her after sex or before sleep, hugs her from behind when she’s making dinner in the kitchen, ignoring Masako’s surprised squawk from being too-deeply absorbed in cutting vegetables to notice Alex’s approach with the soft alt-rock on the radio.   
  
“Hey,” she says, annoyed voice melting into a sigh as Alex sweeps her hair off her neck to place a kiss on the place where it meets her shoulder, lips dry, to tuck Masako’s shoulder under her chin and wait for another sigh, this one more theatrical, and a piece of carrot or pepper stuck between her lips.  
  
She puts her hands up Masako’s shirt when it’s untucked from her pants, Alex’s own body too close to naked, thin underwear and tank top pressing her skin close to Masako’s through the layer of Masako’s own shirt. Her hands never wander too far; she knows Masako’s using a knife and she’s hungry, too. Some nights they cook together, Alex stirring the meat in the frying pan, getting Masako to check the color when she breaks it open with a wooden spoon; sometimes Alex gets there first, grease wiped from her fingers onto the hem of her tank top like an excuse to take it off (which it only sometimes is).  
  
Masako’s not used to being the big spoon but she can hold Alex from behind, anyway, bury her face in Alex’s soft hair, kiss the open skin between Alex’s shoulder blades, feel the vibrations of Alex’s laughter in her arms, chest, stomach, warming her better than a shot of whiskey on a cold night. There is nothing holding Masako there but she stays, eyes closed, breathing in the smell of dried sweat on Alex’s neck mixing with the cooking food, and she’s more than a little bit hungry for both. It’s so easy for Alex to touch her so casually, but if Masako were to start right here they’d end up going a little too far for comfort with food still on the burner. Alex laughs again, as if she knows exactly where Masako’s mind is going.  
  
“It’ll wait. I’ll be here.”  
  
“I know,” says Masako (she’s not some horny teenager who can barely keep it together, come on now).  
  
Alex tilts her neck for easy access; Masako kisses up it, to her jaw, to the back of her ear, nudging the frame of her glasses, waiting for Alex to turn her head so their lips can meet, however briefly before Alex gets back to the food.


	58. aokaga, wild west au

They ride town to town, day to day. Some days it’s just the two of them in the desert, in between civilizations; they stick close to the rivers except when they’re feeling risky, out in the middle of no man’s land with their horses complaining of thirst. One of these days, Kagami thinks, they’re going to run into trouble they can’t escape; a horse will keel over (but he’s ridden on the back of Aomine’s before, that time Aomine had had to break him out of jail, and it’s not a bad deal, his legs around Aomine’s, his arms around Aomine’s waist, his hat bouncing around his neck until Aomine had found him a horse and he’d made the jump as they were all running, barely made the saddle). They’ll be too far from water to make it back; they’ll get caught by someone with a shot as good as them and a goal competing with theirs.  
  
But today the desert is lonely, the carved-out dirt highway from town to town empty on this stretch. They’re far enough away from the last place they’d made enemies to assume relative safety, to approach the town shimmering like a mirage at the end of the road in the open. The smell hits first, the death and decay and rot, not often found in a place like the desert where everything dries awfully quick. The sound of buzzing flies is clear, carried on the slight breeze. There won’t be much for them here.  
  
This town must have been felled by some sudden disease, sweeping in from nowhere and maybe not dead yet. Kagami pulls his bandana up over his mouth, as if it helps, and swings down from his horse.   
  
“Easy, girl.”  
  
Aomine follows, and they lead the horses up to the outskirts. There’s a chance that someone--bandits, following them too patiently, locals from a nearby town or tribe--might steal the horses, or shoot them just to strand the two of them here. But Kagami doesn’t want to bring them in and have them eat something contaminated, breathe too much of this air.   
  
“I’ll boost you,” Kagami says.  
  
He pulls Aomine up onto his shoulders (he’s gotten pretty fucking heavy, but Kagami’s not going to get in an argument about who’s weak or what) and Aomine pulls himself up onto the wall, peering over it. Behind them, the horses toe the ground; Kagami turns. There’s no one in sight, just flat land and a few cacti. There’s a water pump a few yards away; it might be contaminated but it’s not the most dangerous thing they’ve tried today.  
  
“Everything’s empty,” says Aomine. “Rotting horses in the streets; that’s the smell. We’d best go around.”  
  
Kagami nods; it sounds fair. He turns, and there’s definitely something in the distance now (shit, the horses must have some psychic power). His hand’s on his pistol; he looks at Aomine. There’s probably not much time to stop.  
  
“There’ll be a pump on the other side,” says Aomine. “If we go around, maybe they’ll get distracted and we can jack their shit.”  
  
It’s a stupid plan, but it’s not like Kagami’s got anything better. He leans over, tilting Aomine’s hat away from his face, and kisses him. For luck.


	59. aohimu, waste

There are some things Daiki doesn’t want to forgive right now. It doesn’t mean he never will; it doesn’t mean he might not soon (he might want to hold grudges out of spite but find them slipping through his fingers like water in a stream, endlessly trying to cup it in his fingers but it always slips through an unsealed crack) but if it’s up to him, right now, he won’t. It’s not that some things are unforgivable. It’s just that he’s got no reason to forgive Tatsuya for the hurt that blossoms across his chest, like a hole, like an infected tattoo.   
  
It’s the knowledge that he’d tried. He’d done his damn best, gone above and beyond, because somehow he’d convinced himself that Tatsuya was worth it, that it was worth it to chase a smile across the fucking galaxy, to coax it out again and again, to go twice as fast as Tatsuya when Tatsuya tried to pull back, to keep reassuring him that it was all okay. But Tatsuya’s fear had been a self-fulfilling prophecy (don’t let him get too close; he’ll leave), the thing that had eventually driven Daiki away despite himself. There’s only so long he can try; there’s only so much he can do; he can reach across the lines and boundaries but if Tatsuya doesn’t reach back then it doesn’t count for shit, just a lot of wasted hard work and energy, a lot of love that goes nowhere like a network packet dropped by a shitty connection.  
  
The love was never a waste, but it’s not something Daiki can forgive Tatsuya for right now. He’d taken his lumps with this relationship with his own assurance that things would get better, that they’d be worth it, but it had never panned out. Sometimes gambles don’t, but this had never felt like it, and it hurts. Being alone is never fun; being alone when you know someone across the country is pushing you away is even worse, a weight on Daiki’s chest when he tries to fall asleep on another uncomfortable hotel room bed. It doesn’t even matter if Daiki forgives Tatsuya or not because Tatsuya won’t forgive himself, he supposes, but he’s cut Tatsuya enough breaks already. He’s not going to give him another one.  
  
They’ll meet again on the court. Daiki has no intention of looking him in the eye, of smiling at him even if it’s fake.


	60. aokise, i won't wait

“I won’t wait,” says Kise, smoothing Aomine’s hair out of his face. “But I won’t leave you behind.”  
  
It’s hard to believe it all that fully when Kise is fully dressed, healthy, cappuccino in his hand, elbow held out at a comfortable angle (which for Aomine right now is none of them). It’s hard to not just resent him for his health, for the season ahead that he gets to play, playoffs and championships and the all-star game. It’s not that Aomine’s afraid he won’t be able to catch up, not when they’re twenty-three and established in the NBA. It’s not that he thinks these bone spurs are going to crop up again, soon enough that his time recovered will just be a blip on the radar.   
  
But it’s hard not to feel like he’s being left behind anyway when Kise’s going to walk out the door and fly off to the west coast in a few days (that he’d gotten these few here, coinciding with Aomine’s surgery, is a minor miracle, even considering how good of a sweet-talker Kise’s always been). He’ll be back on TV, slamming down dunks and talking a hundred and fifty miles an hour to the sideline reporters, making the highlight reels, giving quotes in the postgame, living in full, vibrant color. Aomine will be stuck here in Cleveland all winter, working out as much as he’s allowed, and it’s going to hurt; it’s going to be an uphill climb. It’s going to suck, and they’re not going to be together for it. He’s going to get to watch Kise do everything they’re supposed to do together all by himself, and it sucks.  
  
“Stay a little longer?” he mumbles, pretending like he’s still kind of knocked out from the medicine.  
  
Kise sees right through him right away, but he smiles.   
  
“Join me,” says Aomine, gesturing to the bed.  
  
He’s sick and absolutely shit company right now, but he’s tired enough to not give a shit about how pathetic he sounds. Kise’s smile turns more tender and he walks around to the other side of the bed. He gets in on top of the covers; he’ll probably be gone the moment Aomine goes back to sleep. At least he’s on Aomine’s good side; they can hold hands without Aomine hearing the doctors and trainers start lecturing him again.  
  
“Get back soon,” Kise whispers into his hair. “It’s no fun competing without you.”


	61. kagahimu, jersey shore

“Are you really gonna trust the boardwalk clams?”  
  
Taiga casts a sidelong glance at Tatsuya, the fried clam that’s in his hand right now, and then back at the tourist arguing with her companion about food safety. Tatsuya grins back, smacking his lips before reaching for another.  
  
“Why did they come to the shore if they’re not eating fried shit?” Taiga says.  
  
Tatsuya shrugs. “More for us.”  
  
“It’s not like, a limited supply.”  
  
Tatsuya picks up another fried clam; in the hazy sunlight Taiga can see the grease glistening on his fingertips. This time Tatsuya holds it out in front of Taiga’s face. Taiga could just take it, but he knows what Tatsuya’s really asking and leans in, grabbing the clam with his teeth and licking Tatsuya’s fingers, oil sticking on his tongue and tasting like summer, thick and salty. The smell of seafood and ocean clings to everything here; even in the fall Taiga still finds dirty hoodies on the floor of Tatsuya’s closet that smell like the shore, like all of this, sea and shellfish and sweat and hair gel.   
  
“I want pickles," says Tatsuya.  
  
“You’re going to get dehydrated.”  
  
Tatsuya looks at Taiga as if to say he knows what he’s doing, and, well, he has a kind of insane tolerance for salt. But still, it’s hot and humid and gross and Tatsuya’s sweated out probably a gallon of water today already. His feet are bare against the bottom bar of the stool; his flip-flop tan is sharply defined against his foot (it’s hard to imagine the rest of Tatsuya as that pale now, the way he gets every winter as the face of their hemisphere turns away from the sun). God, Taiga wants to kiss him, pick him up and carry him into the water and go out to sea. Take him surfing, maybe, that’s a more plausible thought (practicality, though—two people on a surfboard?) or just wade in, say they’re going into their ankles and end up with their shorts soaked through. A group of obviously drunk and underage kids passes them, giggling and shoving each other across the boards. Taiga thinks about that song about sex under the boardwalk, and it sounds pretty gross and terrible actually, but with Tatsuya it might still be fun.   
  
“I want to go into the water,” Taiga says (more like a complaint than he’d meant).   
  
“Okay,” says Tatsuya. “When we’re done with this and I get my pickles.”  
  
Taiga rolls his eyes but bumps Tatsuya’s knee with his under the table.


	62. aomido, unresolved

The future is always uncertain; both of them know there are no guarantees. That’s why Midorima prepares so much for every future scenario he can, practice and lucky items and studying hard for every test. This game, this day, might just carry more weight for his future than others, and he can’t just bank on the possibility that it won’t. He has to take some gambles, of course, but if he calculates the risk and skirts it well, then it doesn’t feel like a gamble at all.  
  
Everything about this relationship has been a gamble, though; it’s the free fall of a confession and the tentative grasp of hand in a hand, noses bumping when they kiss, words stumbled and stuttered over like fawns learning to walk in a rocky clearing. It gets better and smoother, but they’re always going to hit something along the way, no matter how hard they work, no matter how well they fit together out of muscle memory.  
  
“Am I doing the right thing?” Aomine says.  
  
It’s the question that’s been on the tip of his tongue for a week, the question Midorima’s been too impatient to not give him more than ample room to say, but whose answer he’s a little afraid of.  
  
“I’m not sure,” he says, even though he’s been thinking about it since Aomine had said he was going to go pro.  
  
“I mean,” says Aomine, and then stops. “There’s nothing else I want to do, you know? It’s always kind of had to be basketball.”  
  
Midorima nods; for someone who’s claimed his ambitions lie in science or medicine since grade school he knows better than most people would think, his own selfish goals (firm blocks, three-pointers climbing higher than the beams of the roof) have increasingly taken a front seat, and while he hadn’t turned down a seat at a national university he had considered going to a private college known for its basketball program a lot more seriously than his parents would be comfortable with.   
  
“I know you know,” says Aomine.   
  
Midorima opens his mouth, bites his lip, and then opens his mouth again. This isn’t a proposal he’s thought about making lightly, but—they’ve ended up in the same city for now, but this is just a stopgap for Aomine, a year until he goes to China or Spain or even the NBA (Midorima would have had to see worse with glasses than without not to notice all the scouts at the Touou games). And then what? Basketball, together, someday? Midorima has absolute faith he can make it anywhere Aomine can, that he can put aside his other ambitions for this.   
  
“Do you want to take a break? See where we are in a few years, maybe.”  
  
Aomine’s face contorts, twists ugly like food in a blender. “Shintarou.”  
  
He sounds like the wind’s been knocked out of him; Midorima’s not sure if he can reach out now or if that would just hurt, slice Aomine open more. It's Aomine who reaches for him first, pulling him into a hug, and his answer isn’t clear. Midorima’s fingers tighten in the soft fabric of Aomine’s shirt, and for now he just lets the moment be.


	63. himutakakise, bathwater

Tatsuya and Ryouta are exhausting to love, Kazunari thinks, but they aren’t any worse than him. It’s probably better that there are three of them what with how needy they are, how they claw and pry attention and care from each other’s stiffening hands and don’t care about the broken fingers. They’re all competing with each other, for each other, against each other; they all play favorites sometimes. It’s part of the deal they’ll never write or speak, the charter binding them to this together.   
  
It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s Ryouta lounging over the whole couch, stretched out, pretending like he’s only got room for one other person with him; it’s Tatsuya running his fingers through Kazunari’s hair, combing out the tangles and ignoring Ryouta doing his own beauty routine; it’s Kazunari sitting on Ryouta’s lap and tucking his feet up instead of draping them across Tatsuya’s. It hurts like a hot flash; it doesn’t hurt at all. It all cycles back in and out; they turn away from each other and turn toward each other at the wrong time, reaching for the angles that aren’t there like there’s a clock dictating that they can’t face each other at the same time.   
  
“You’re difficult,” Kazunari breathes into Ryouta’s mouth, Ryouta trying to kiss him senseless and Tatsuya’s fingers digging into his back.  
  
Ryouta takes that like a compliment, a reward hard-earned and fought for, wears it like a medal over his perfect chest. It’s not something Tatsuya wants to be, just the only way he knows how to be, something of which he’s all too aware, like a malignant growth under his skin. Kazunari understands that a little, but there’s no shame in not being easy, in being so tricky that catching you is like catching a sparkling marlin on an old fishing boat where your bait’s all too limited and you don’t know where you are in the ocean; part of it’s the thrill of the challenge, finally saying something that gets Tatsuya to do the opposite of pretending like he wants to leave.  
  
Because none of them do.   
  
“It’s not about deserving,” Ryouta croons into Tatsuya’s hair like a molasses-sweet lullaby that coats his tongue and sticks in his throat.   
  
Tatsuya pretends to go to sleep, and somewhere along the line maybe he does, Ryouta’s arm draped over his stomach as he leans across to kiss Kazunari. And it isn’t about deserving, but even so they deserve each other to the last.


	64. momoriko, kite

It was always a matter of time before Riko exploded like a firework and lit up the night. She’d always been soaring, streamlined, launched like a rocket, into the air; she’d always had her eyes upward on the perpetual climb, the effort to resist gravity and push the air away from under her along with the whole world. Satsuki had never had any doubt, and she tends to be very right about these things.  
  
She hadn’t needed to tell Riko; Riko had already known, her confidence soaring as much as her own trajectory, solidifying her focus and pulling her dreams out of the pipes and into reality. They'd never talked about it much, their futures (though when they had it was always plural, always a foregone conclusion that they’d branch out because no relationship is big enough to hold the two of them at once, not the way they are now or the way they’ll be for a good long while). Riko had never given Satsuki an outline of what she wanted; it was something, like numbers rolling across people’s bodies, measurements accurate down to the millimeter, that only Riko could see.   
  
At first Satsuki had thought basketball, but that’s just where she’s coming from, a world defined by the sport, by her own two hands hefting a ball through a hoop or drawing with markers on a flat representation of a court. Riko loves basketball, but she’s too proud to start in a place coming so clearly from her father; that’s a different kind of challenge she needs other people to overcome, and Riko’s never had much patience for other people. She’d never wait for Satsuki to catch up.  
  
It’s like the way Satsuki imagines her, half-empty third cup of coffee leaving a ring on the windowsill, glasses slipping down her nose, still in bed on a Sunday immersed in a pile of papers like a wall around her. Like a wall, dividing, boxing Satsuki out. They’d had a good run, for what it was, for all the time Satsuki had spent leaning on the doorframe until it felt like she’d carved out a space in her shape, watching Riko go forward and away from her. It hadn’t been as if she’d meant nothing; she’d just meant less, and at the time Satsuki was okay with that, touches here and there, Riko less attainable. But she really hadn’t been attainable at all.


	65. aokise, shot clock

They are worn down but revitalized, pushed and torn but not broken, still holding on to the edge with sharp claws digging into the face of the cliff. There are seven games left; the series doesn’t have to go far but with their teams it almost always does, even matchups that somehow keep flipping the advantage, cats wrestling each other rolling over and over. It’s never an easy road to the finals, but they're always sure they’ll get there, always certain that they’ll toss their adversaries out and meet each other, as it should be (they don’t always do that, but often enough that there’s no reason not to be confident).   
  
It’s like an eclipse, Aomine thinks, Kise blocking out the light of the championship trophy, the lights of the arena over him, ticker tape raining down on his victory once again. It’s like a blood moon, painted with a price, a sign. It’s Aomine’s fingers on Kise’s thighs, hips, waist, Kise’s mouth all over Aomine’s neck and shoulders and chest, marking him with bruises and bites. It’s probably obvious by now they’re from him, where Aomine goes off to every day they’re in Oakland, every night after another game that goes to OT when he’s almost too exhausted and spent and yet, here he is, nuzzling Kise in the afterglow, streetlights pouring in through the gauzy window curtains that don’t do shit, thinking about the championship so close he can feel the weight of the trophy in his arms, the texture against his fingertips almost as clear as Kise’s hair that he’s running his hands through right now.  
  
“Let’s go again,” Kise says, but he doesn’t mean it because he knows AOmine won’t call his bluff.  
  
“Save it for the court,” says Aomine, mouthing a sloppy kiss at the side of Kise’s neck, nipping the skin too light to leave anything.   
  
“Kinky,” says Kise with a snort and Aomine shoves the pillow at him.  
  
He’s counting down like a shot clock in his mind to the moment when Kise snuggles up, pulling the covers around them (it’s June and it should be stuffy but it’s not; they need each other’s body heat the way they do in winter, heat island city or no).  
  
“You’d better congratulate me when I win,” Kise says.  
  
“I would, but you’re not going to,” says Aomine. “But congratulations, for when you lose to me.”  
  
“I’ll kick you out,” says Kise, but he’ll do no such thing.


	66. murakise, blackout blinds

Atsushi had insisted on blackout blinds, and no matter what Ryouta had tried to argue he wouldn’t have it any other way. If he really needs the darkness to sleep (he doesn’t; he sleeps on the couch at noon and in the car when he barely has room even with the seat all the way back and on the train when they’re visiting Tokyo, the trip from Ryouta’s house to his house not even that long but his body’s draped all over Ryouta’s anyway) he can just get an eye mask; they’re ugly and they don’t go with the rest of the decor, the light grey and muted teals and purples that Ryouta had spent an awfully long time picking out. And when they wake up it’s like being in a fucking crypt, staring around for anything other than the face of the alarm clock and the alarm contrast of the light it casts on the nightstand versus anything else.  
  
Also, they’d somehow slept in until eleven and it looks like midnight.   
  
“Atsushi,” says Routa, shaking his shoulder.  
  
Atsushi doesn’t move; Ryouta sighs and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, stretching out the kinks in his shoulders. He yanks at the blind cords and they shoot up; Ryouta winces at the light and turns away. It falls over Atsushi’s torso; his face is buried in the pillow anyway.   
  
“Atsushi, get up.”  
  
That seems to get his attention; he rolls to the side, stretching toward the warmth of the sunbeam, but doesn’t raise his head.   
  
“Atsushi.”  
  
“Ryouta.”  
  
It’s almost impressively whiny for a voice as full of sleep as his, but then again it’s Atsushi.   
  
“It’s lunchtime.”  
  
At that Atsushi cracks an eye; his hair’s all over his face and it looks cute and kind of dumb. He reaches for Ryouta’s hand and Ryouta lets him take it (practically fold his around Ryouta’s it’s so impossibly large).   
  
“I’m not making you anything,” he says in what is probably the sweetest tone he can muster right now. “Come back to bed.”  
  
“There’s nothing in the fridge,” says Ryouta. “Let’s go out.”  
  
“There’s ice cream,” says Atsushi. “Bring it back from the freezer and we’ll eat it here.”  
  
Ryouta’s not sure if Atsushi’s being serious right now, but even if he’s not that’s not helpful, and he’s still not dressed. Atsushi pulls on his arm, yanking him a little closer to being back in bed rather than just sitting on the edge. So he’s not serious, right? He pulls RYouta closer, down for a kiss--his morning breath is disgusting. When Ryouta breaks it, Atsushi’s smiling like he’s just gotten a free candy bar from the vending machine.


	67. nijihimu, possible

Tatsuya’s back, and the difference is all too clear. The lines of worry, not necessarily visible but always there, are dried up like riverbanks no longer flooded over; the weight is less on his shoulder. There are still things he carries; there are still things that are part of him, like the chain he sometimes doesn’t wear now and the person who owns the other half.  
  
Tatsuya’s redoing his last year of high school at some fancy prep institution, trying to get better recruitment opportunities and it seems to be paying off. Shuuzou’s slipped into the back of the gym to see assistant coaches from his college, taking notes on Tatsuya’s teammates perhaps but interviewing Tatsuya afterwards more than anyone else. And Shuuzou’s learned from his mistakes the last time through; he’s not going to say there’s such a thing as too much hope from his end.  
  
“You should come here,” he says, as Tatsuya checks him the ball; the sound of it against the chipped street court asphalt sings sweet.  
  
“How do you know they’ll make me an offer?” says Tatsuya.  
  
“Look, they’re talking to you an awful lot,” says Shuuzou. “They’re not going to waste their time with someone they’re only casually interested in. Our best guard’s probably going to declare for the draft and it’s pretty thin below him on the roster.”  
  
“What if they want the best player available, regardless of position?”  
  
“Then they think it’s you,” says Shuuzou.   
  
Tatsuya snorts, and Shuuzou stops, halfway through his shooting motion, sinking back onto his heels. Tatsuya might not be the best, rated on pure ability or instinct or whatever, but he’s at least in that conversation. Shuuzou’s read the scouting reports the coaches have tossed at him and his teammates about high school players, asking them who they’ve played against. Tatsuya’s a bit of an unknown quantity, but the difference since his year on the JV circuit is clear; they say even though he’s overage he might not have hit his ceiling yet. Shuuzou’s quite inclined to agree.   
  
“Come here,” Shuuzou says again, basketball in one hand, reaching out his other.   
  
He knows what it sounds like, and that’s what it means. Maybe it’s not practical to get back together now, before Tatsuya starts college; Shuuzou’s okay with waiting (he’s waited this long; Tatsuya’s worth it). Tatsuya reaches out his hand to squeeze Shuuzou’s, the smooth softness of his hands so familiar (Shuuzou’s missed it for so long). And then he knocks away the basketball and he’s off down the cur, laughing as Shuuzou swears and tries to catch up. He’ll get there, though.


	68. aosaku, you're ok

“Hey, you’re okay,” says Aomine.  
  
His hands are rough on the skin of Sakurai’s cheeks, skin Sakurai knows all too well is so smooth, too smooth to grow a beard yet or even get rough with the start of one. He knows he’s okay; he’s the one who’s had to push and pull for this, put in the effort because he’s sick and tired of fucking waiting. But maybe Aomine’s trying to reassure himself, or maybe he thinks differently of Sakurai than what’s actually there.  
  
“I know,” Sakurai says, not bothering to hide the hardness in his voice, hands on Aomine’s shoulders.  
  
Aomine’s skin is warm, in tone and in touch under his hands, through his shirt; maybe this is what they mean by light and shadow. Maybe Aomine’s like the sun in summer (Sakurai thinks of drawing him with an angry sun face the way he’s drawn Imayoshi and Susa as old men waving their canes that makes Aomine laugh), like a sunbeam you can lie in and close your eyes (a sunbeam that can burn, but Sakurai’s careful).  
  
“Oh,” says Aomine, kind of half-laughing, nervous.  
  
“So are you,” says Sakurai.   
  
Aomine breathes out, opening his eyes. He looks like a startled animal; his hands relax against Sakurai’s sin, thread through his hair. They’ve never even really talked about going this far before; they’re just kissing on Sakurai’s dorm bed and yet the anticipation is hanging in the air, suspending their motions, making Sakurai more impatient and making Aomine trip on his own action and inaction, like it’s slowing him down and suspending him. Sakurai pushes gently at Aomine; he lets go and sits back. Sakurai eyes his face, the lines that make up the picture, the shadow and cross-hatching. Maybe they’re okay; maybe this is good; maybe they shouldn’t anyway.   
  
“You’re too tense,” Sakurai says, looking at the hunch in Aomine’s shoulders, almost pinched as it were; they draw closer to reinforce his words as he says them.  
  
“Shit, Ryou,” says Aomine. “I want to.”  
  
“I know you do,” says Sakurai. “But you need to chill out a little bit first.”  
  
Aomine sighs, running a hand through his hair; it’s cute. He’s cute. Maybe that feels like a reaction to him but it’s not like Sakurai’s not feeling a little let down, too. He leans forward to press a close-mouthed kiss to Aomine’s mouth; it makes him give a half-smile. His shoulders are beginning to relax; he’s rolling off the pressure, Sakurai would say back into the air but it doesn’t feel any worse. Nothing’s pressing down on him when he kisses Aomine again.


	69. murahimu, monster boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mild horror

Himuro is slippery, like a candy wrapper gripped in sweaty fingers or a glass of water in the summer, sweating through the bottom of the coaster onto the coffee table so that Murasakibara’s sister yells at him for messing it up. He acts so calm and collected but he’s difficult to handle, maybe as troublesome as everyone seems to think Murasakibara is (but he can get away with saying and doing shit with a pretty smile and it’s all forgiven; it’s too much effort to appear a different way). But he’s a little bit like a cat; hold out enough treats and wait quietly for long enough and he’ll come.  
  
Murasakibara’s not particularly patient, but this is something that happens on its own, and maybe that’s why it works. Maybe that’s why Himuro ends up reaching for his hand (his is small, soft, firm, sure; once Murasakibara starts holding it he sees no reason to let it go). Their relationship isn’t some fictional ideal of something; Murasakibara’s wrist is still hurt and Himuro still gets angry and closes himself off. Sometimes he disappears on Sundays, and Murasakibara doesn’t follow. This isn’t something where there’s an invitation to do so. And Himuro always comes back, dropping exhausted into Murasakibara’s bed, falling asleep with his head pressed against Murasakibara’s chest and a frown on his face.  
  
They buy ice cream after practice at the school canteen, not as good as soft-serve but good enough to coat Himuro’s mouth in pale cream, sweet sugar he lets Murasakibara kiss off before it dries. Murasakibara supposes this is a kind of happiness, but it still feels like skating on a pond, ice solid beneath their feet. He can’t crack it, even with Himuro straddling his waist and kissing him, Himuro feeding him ice cream from the tip of a spoon, the top of a cone.   
  
Murasakibara doesn’t intend to follow him one Sunday; he doesn’t really follow either. He ends up on the hill, wandering around and bored, and he can see Himuro from far away. He can see Himuro when he comes closer, the scales forming on his skin, the recognition in Himuro’s eye. He looks like he’s trying to stop what’s happening to him, but it’s too late; he’s falling to the ground and his skin is turning grey, flat; his hands and feet become claws. He looks up with the face of some kind of monster, and Murasakibara stares back.  
  
“Just go,” Himuro says, voice rasping and strange.  
  
“Why?” says Murasakibara.   
  
(Himuro is still Himuro, monster or no; it might be better if he’d prefer not to talk like this. They can nap under the sun and wake up to go back.)  
  
Himuro lies down next to him, careful, wary. Murasakibara waits.


	70. mayuaka, at night

Akashi wakes up in the middle of the night, cold sweat running down the back of his neck, pooling on his shoulder blades. Outside, a garbage truck is humming, loud and obnoxious and intrusive as it creaks. Akashi remembers a creak and sway in his dream, a bridge that would not stay still, his feet steady on the planks but the planks unsteady under him, his toes gripping the edges, the boards splintering and digging into his skin.  
  
Mayuzumi is still asleep beside him, a heavy sleeper; the liminality of deep slumber suits him, flitting from shadow to shadow, dreamlike. Akashi wouldn’t go so far as to say Mayuzumi’s his dream boy (please), but. Up close, the blemishes on his skin, angry rash from a bad shave under his chin, the mole on the side of his ear, blackheads at the side of his cheek--are apparent, a study in texture. Akashi’s no artist, though, and the point of all this is not to keep Mayuzumi as he is, capture him in a moment, undisturbed.  
  
Akashi sighs. The bridge in his dream is symbolic of something, his own inability to deal with all of this shit head on probably. Basketball, school, his father’s increasing demands, the weight of expectations from all sides. He’s spent a lifetime pretending as if they aren’t a burden, a foolish choice he’s made too long ago to renege on but one that allows others to pile on more because of course he can take it. It’s not enough to make him dissociate again, but why is that the line? Shouldn’t it come before he’s pushed to that point?   
  
“I’m too spoiled,” he says, out loud, leaning back on his hands.  
  
“The hell you are,” says Mayuzumi.  
  
Akashi blinks; he’s awake and arguing already, even though he’s so fond of telling Akashi to stop acting like a rich brat all the time.   
  
“Just do what you want,” says Mayuzumi, grabbing his wrist and trying to pull him back down.  
  
Akashi stays sitting; Mayuzumi glares up at him as much as he can with that much sleep in his eyes.  
  
“Wasn’t I going to do it anyway?” he says.  
  
“Nah,” says Mayuzumi. “I’d tell you to come back to sleep, but I know you won’t listen.”  
  
He’s goading Akashi, but he doesn’t need to for it to work. Akashi sighs, slipping back under the covers, pulling them back from Mayuzumi’s side.


	71. izukiyo, reunion

Long flights are the opposite of calming, especially when there’s someone you’ve been waiting for at the other end. Maybe there’s a pun in that thought, buried somewhere like the root of a weed chopped down, below the surface somewhere (like the ones Izuki’s younger sister leaves carelessly in the garden soil and he gets blamed for, the ones Kiyoshi would always help her pick out when he’d come over). It’s only been a few months until Kiyoshi had gone over for surgery; it’s only been a few months but it feels like so much has changed. They’re still a team without him; they always were but it feels out of whack, like it shouldn’t have to end this way, like despite their win Kiyoshi should have waited (that maybe they’d sacrificed the future for the present, all of them; it doesn’t matter so much when high school’s only three years but even so).   
  
He’s overthinking it, probably. Maybe. Not really? It’s hard not to; it’s hard to stay still when he’s been cooped up for so many hours, when he can only sleep so many and the person sitting next to him is snoring loudly and the tightness and tension aren’t going away. He wants to see Kiyoshi; that’s never been in question. Kiyoshi wants to see him, too; he’d said it himself and Izuki’s not so lacking in confidence that he thinks Kiyoshi’s going to coax him into flying all the way out here just to break up with him. It’s not worth that kind of trouble. It’s just that, despite their intentions, despite everything, it’s been months. It was hard learning how to be over the phone, over a distance; it’s hard thinking about wanting to see him and not being able to. It had been hard when he was in the hospital at the beginning of second year; it had even been hard all through first year when they’d gone to school together, had practice together, when Kiyoshi had gone over to Izuki’s house more often than not. All that time together and Izuki had wanted more, the thrill of his heart jumping as he’d bump Kiyoshi’s shoulders while they did the dishes.   
  
It’s a different kind of difficult now, and it’s going to take more adjustment than they’ll have time together, maybe. Izuki shuts his eyes. There’s still time for a nap; he’s going to think about plane puns because it’s just plane boring if he mopes the whole way through.  
  
He’s spinning around looking for the right baggage carousel, numbers and figures and sounds jumping out at him in overload, until he catches sight of a familiar walk, not all that different with a cane. Kiyoshi’s smile is warm, warmer than a seat right above the radiator on the subway in winter, and everything is different but maybe it’s in all the right ways.


	72. aomomo, not childhood friends au

Aomine’s never met anyone like Momoi. That’s not true, strictly speaking; he can’t say any one of her traits are unique to her--he’s met smart people, gorgeous people, people who know basketball as they do an intimate partner (though perhaps, other than himself, no one else to this degree), people who rush headlong into things so sure of what they want before they realize that’s not what they want at all, and make it out unscathed. With her it’s rarely luck; it’s always preparation, her ability to subconsciously second guess her own sharp intuition. And as a collection; it’s not even these traits that make her so damn amazing. There is no why in how much he likes her; it just is, intense, intoxicating, breathing in too much cologne from a sample.   
  
And he still chokes on his words; it’s so hard to just say it; it’s hard to put himself in the position where he lets her know. She knows everything; she has to know how he feels--but that’s the coward’s way out, and even if she knows that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to hear it from his mouth. It doesn’t mean he shouldn’t tell her, spoil her, give this to her. But it’s still going out on a limb, far from the safety of the strong trunk of what they’ve built up, the foundation of mutual affection.   
  
(Is he scared? He’s fucking terrified.)  
  
“Dai-chan,” Momoi says (she calls him that so easily, almost childlike; he accepts it from her because from her lips it suits him). “We’ll meet up later?”  
  
She slides out of his bed, stretching; her hair is tangled in a knot below her shoulders and his eyes follow the shape of her bare arms, one breast fallen out of his old tank top she’s wearing, the neckline as it were uneven across her. She turns back, eyes sleepy, mouth half-open.  
  
“I wouldn’t mind,” he says. “If you’d stay a little longer.”  
  
“I have stuff to do,” she says, turning away again.  
  
“Do it here? I want you to stay.”  
  
(It’s not a total admission; he’s just taken maybe half a step forward and he’s still waiting for the free fall to start.)  
  
“Okay,” she says, turning back; he pulls her down on top of him, kissing the side of her jaw.   
  
Her hair falls into his mouth and he spits it back out; she’s already laughing and it’s getting tangled between them again (where the hell did her hair tie go?) and his stomach feels like it’s full of helium, as if he’s going to soar into the air and float away. And it’s fine as long as he can take her with him.


	73. aokuro, daydream

It starts out awkward, how much Daiki’s thinking about Tetsu, how Tetsu seems to walk right back into Daiki’s mind from some place he wasn’t or some place he shouldn’t be, like he’s about to say he was there the whole damn time (and maybe he was). It feels awkward, not like Tetsu’s intruding but like Daiki’s the one intruding in some sort of backwards kind of way, like the way Daiki wins and Tetsu makes him feel like he’s lost anyway. And Daiki’s definitely losing here, even though he’s not sure what he’s losing, what’s at stake; his opponent is some other part of himself, the part aggressively pushing him to think more about Tetsu.  
  
Tetsu’s small hands on a basketball, Tetsu smiling up at him, Tetsu with longer bangs, Tetsu’s quiet voice, Tetsu scoring, Tetsu passing, Tetsu with sweat running down his face, down his neck; Tetsu’s bony torso--oh, fuck. At least Daiki’s a little too old to pop a boner right in the middle of class (and he’s had quite a few untoward thoughts about gravure girls lately, but this is more sudden, more intense, more lucid, maybe because Tetsu’s so much more real, so much more part of the same world Daiki is).  
  
Now that he’s aware of it, it’s even worse; it’s like that part of him’s winning, or maybe that part of him’s already won. Daiki eats lunch with Satsuki and Ryou and pokes at the bento, thinks about how Tetsu would have made him a boiled egg, sharing food with Tetsu, moving his own chopsticks into Tetsu’s mouth and feeling the pressure as his mouth closes around a bit of meat.   
  
“You’re daydreaming, Dai-chan,” says Satsuki, sidelong glance at him as if she knows exactly what he’s thinking (and shit, doesn’t she like Tetsu too).  
  
“Good food,” says Daiki. “Thanks, Ryou.”  
  
He only ends up waiting by the Seirin gate because he’s bored, not because he’s specifically over there to talk to Tetsu, not because he’s been thinking about him all day. It just kind of happens, and Daiki’s not that annoyed when he sees Tetsu coming out with Kagami and Furihata. Honestly.  
  
“Tetsu,” he says, raising a hand. “Hey.”  
  
“Hello, Aomine-kun.”  
  
It’s nice to hear his voice, but Daiki’s not going to say that out loud, especially not when Furihata and Kagami are looking at him like they’re expecting him to do something.  
  
“I’m stealing Tetsu for the afternoon,” he says. “Come on.”  
  
“You could ask first,” says Tetsu, but he steps forward anyway.  
  
Daiki grabs his hand. He’s going to have to explain this one, but fuck it. It’s better than leaving this image of Tetsu in his mind like this.


	74. kagahimu, rosebush!tatsuya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> body horror, angst

It’s the worst summer they’ve had in ten years, the drought quicker and nastier, killing the crops and irrigation systems, turning the whole state into a dusty wasteland. All the water is rationed, even the bottled shit they get from out of state by the truckload. Taiga uses all of his on Tatsuya.  
  
“Taiga, you can’t,” Tatsuya says, voice trembling after he swallows.   
  
His lips are lush and wet with water; he looks--not good. But the best he can.   
  
“Yes, I can,” says Taiga.  
  
He reaches over to brush the curtain of thorns away from Tatsuya’s face, the soft flesh that still remains. A thorn catches his thumb, but Tatsuya’s not the only one who knows how to hold his face steady, even if Tatsuya can smell his blood. He’d put up with worse than this for Tatsuya, for as long as he’s here.  
  
-  
  
It starts out so simply, the skin on Tatsuya’s hands hardening into the callouses he’d avoided for years, his hair tangling and clumping with grease, normal human physical conditions, Taiga had thought. And then something, somewhere, crosses over an invisible line. Maybe it’s been when Taiga starts walking into the kitchen every morning to see Tatsuya wiping away tears. Or maybe it’s been how thirsty he is, the water he’s always pouring down his throat (no drought that summer, not as easy to notice) and how he begins to eat less and less. Maybe it starts before then, even, but he can’t ignore it when the flesh on Tatsuya’s rib cage begins to peel and fall away.   
  
It’s the skin on his torso, flaking and dry; but layer after layer peels away, drying up into dust, until the bones of his ribs begin to show. The inside of him is hollow; his organs are all dry and gone inside of him and somehow he has continued to function, the water poured down his throat still spreading through his veins, his warm heart still pumping something through. His bare ribs are not bones, hard and brown and rough, the tangled stems of a bush, from them sprouting twigs and buds.  
  
Tatsuya still cries every morning, but Taiga always finds him, tear tracks on his cheek, drinking water straight out of the kitchen faucet.   
  
-  
  
It is slow; it is aching in Taiga’s heart, the way Tatsuya is still here. A head attached to a rose bush, taking water in through his roots in his bed of soil, still taking it from the bottles Taiga offers, the ones that sap his salary away (the ones he would go millions into debt for).  
  
“When I’m gone,” Tatsuya starts.  
  
Taiga can’t bear to hear it, even when he sees Tatsuya’s ear growing thorny, his teeth turning to stems. He buries his face in his hands; his shoulders shake; he can’t let Tatsuya see him like this but he can’t spend time without him, not when they have so little left.   
  
“Taiga,” Tatsuya says, his voice breaking. “Taiga.”  
  
Taiga imagines Tatsuya still has arms, that they hadn’t dried up and fallen off like wasted branches, that he’s reaching out to touch Taiga’s hair, that the pads of his fingers are still soft against Taiga’s scalp.  
  
-  
  
They go shopping for soil together; Tatsuya walks on crutches and wears boots too big in the heat to disguise his withering feet, layers of clothing over his hollow chest, a hat over the thorns at the roots of his hair. He still talks, pleasant, hands in his pockets when he can; he still looks beautiful. He still looks almost human like this, and Taiga has to take long breaths to stop himself from breaking down in an aisle full of shovels.   
  
“This one’s good,” says Tatsuya. “Lots of nutrients.”  
  
Taiga takes his rough hand; they haven’t since they were kids but he’s going to be a little selfish here and now, while he still can. Tatsuya looks at him, expression placid as always, but sad.   
  
“This is how it is now,” says Tatsuya. “I’ll be okay.”  
  
He doesn’t let go; they hold hands in the car and Tatsuya doesn’t say anything about the knuckles of Taiga’s left hand white on the steering wheel.


	75. aokaga, fight

They fight about stupid shit sometimes. Kagami’s not even sure what it was this time that had set off the stupid chain reaction, but there’s no immediate importance to it, only that it had happened and now they’re here, on opposite sides of a divide existing as clearly between their minds as it does physically. And they’re both still mad; Kagami’s mostly mad at how Aomine had juts fucking stormed out like that, but it’s not as if they would have somehow figured out how to solve all of their issues if he’d stayed behind. Kagami can wait it out, wait for him to come back; he’s got patience. It just might not be enough to deal with Aomine’s stubbornness (somehow it never is; it’s as if Aomine delights in pushing his limits in that, too, and maybe he does).   
  
Kagami sighs; there are only a few places where Aomine could have gone and if he’s going to have to go after him at least he knows where to look. He shoves on his sneakers, grabs his keys, and locks the door to his apartment behind him as he goes. It’s cold, but Aomine had taken the sweatshirt on the coat rack (he can’t be too mad if he’s still wearing that); Kagami walks to the park quickly, checks the basketball courts and finds nothing. He turns to look at the vending machines, and there’s Aomine in that grey sweatshirt. Kagami shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. Aomine sees him as he’s coming over, jerking his head towards an unoccupied bench. When Kagami gets close enough he sees Aomine’s got two cans of coffee, one held out.   
  
“That for me?” says Kagami.  
  
“No, I want to be up all night,” says Aomine, rolling his eyes.  
  
Kagami scowls but takes the can, opening it as they sit. “Thanks.”  
  
Aomine nods. His posture’s loose, legs slightly spread, free hand open, slouching against the back of the bench. It’s a casualness that may once have been forced, but he’s so used to it now his body remembers without him trying.   
  
“I said some dumb shit,” says Aomine. “I was an ass, and running away didn’t help.”  
  
Kagami shrugs. “We needed space. Maybe that wasn’t the best way of going about it, but.”  
  
“I wasn’t done,” says Aomine. “I’m sorry, okay?”  
  
Kagami grins. “Me, too. Also for interrupting.”  
  
“It’s all good.” Aomine waves his hand.


	76. aokise, reincarnation

Aomine doesn’t even tell Kise he loves him until their fourth time through, but Kise doesn’t tell him either (so really, it’s all fair and even). They’re old men this time, Aomine’s daughter the second wife of Kise’s son, their families merged together out of necessity. Aomine has been lonely without being alone for so long it feels odd when he has someone his own age to be with, to wake up early with and complain with him about aching joints and bones. Maybe this time through is the one they need to say it the least, but it’s not, because they’re just starting to remember, breaking through the cracks of their old minds like sun through a damaged paper screen.   
  
They are drinking tea in the back, the pounding of the heavy feet their grandchildren have not yet figured out how to use sounding from upstairs, and Aomine is not sure if it has always been Kise. He might not be the boy from the other village who yells at him for being a crybaby; he might not be the little brother Satsuki’s family adopts; he might not be the one on the other side of a territorial dispute, eyes gleaming dangerously. But does it matter if he is? With that, without that, here and now is plenty.  
  
“I love you,” Aomine says.  
  
“Took you long enough,” says Kise.   
  
“You haven't said it, either.”  
  
“I was waiting for you,” says Kise. “I love you, too.”  
  
“See how much longer I make you wait next time, asshole,” says Aomine.  
  
-  
  
That’s the last one where they’re happy for a long time; it’s the last one where Aomine can say it. There are times through when he remembers but Kise doesn’t, focusing his eyes on someone else; there are times when Kise looks at Aomine and Aomine knows he knows and still, the world pulls them apart, fingers prying them loose and scattering them. Some lifetimes Aomine never meets Kise at all, wonders if he’s gone from this plane entirely. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that about waiting; maybe it had been tempting fate (but Kise is worth any kind of wait).  
  
They are in middle school the next time they vote; Aomine lives in an apartment with his parents and has a cell phone. Kise is a model, and in this life Kise’s good at everything. In this life Aomine has basketball, pure and clear and his, his, his, but that doesn’t stop him from being greedy. He wants Kise, too, so he throws the basketball at him, and maybe this is the time he gets to say it.  
  
(It’s not until a few years later, when they’re on Aomine’s couch watching a movie Aomine doesn’t remember later, when Kise says it first this time.)


	77. akamido, space

When Akashi had moved in, there had been something in the back of Midorima’s mind, not fear but perhaps wariness that everything would change now. Seeing someone every day is quite different from living with them, their frustrations bleeding over to yours, carving out alone time in a shared space, what any or all of this means, really. He’s the one who had asked; he wants this as much as Akashi does. And it’s Akashi, and maybe that’s what’s making him a little wary, that there are still parts of him that aren’t quite good enough for Akashi, that he’s always given Akashi his best but there’s so much more underneath that.  
  
Then again, Akashi’s always been good at seeing what lies below the surface.  
  
He doesn’t flinch at it, though they fight. It’s usually stupid but almost unavoidable, when Midorima has a bad mood and nowhere to put it and Akashi’s put something in the wrong drawer, or when Akashi’s frustrated and short and Midorima takes it personally because even though maybe it’s not about him it still twists his intestines inside of him. And he shouldn’t be surprised by this perhaps, but he still is, the way Akashi adjusts and fine-tunes his routine to match Midorima’s.  
  
He takes the extra hour Midorima allows himself on Sundays to lie in bed and not sleep but not do much of anything, talking or lying against him and staring up at the ceiling (perhaps seeing it so clearly makes it boring, but Akashi never says). He eats when Midorima does, not a rigid schedule but a pattern that he can adhere to. He learns where things go; there is space enough for all of his additions. He watches Oha-Asa with Midorima in the morning, leaning over the back of the couch to kiss Midorima’s cheek (for luck, he says, a twist of his lips and oh, Midorima has never felt this much).   
  
There is space here; there will always be space here for the two of them, despite how much room Midorima takes up, despite the baggage Akashi brings. There is room for Akashi’s hands around Midorima’s waist, some old music station on the radio that’s just flipped to an ad, Akashi’s smile as he looks up through his eyelashes, the bright red of his eyes trained on Midorima’s, and Midorima swallows. And there is room for him to lean down and kiss Akashi and take as long as he wants.


	78. kikasa, advice

So Kasamatsu had actually listened to Moriyama a little when Moriyama had tried to give him dating advice. Yeah, Moriyama can’t get a date to save his life, but he’s thought about it considerably more than Kasamatsu has (and Kasamatsu's thought about it a hell of a lot over the past week). Kise’s the one who had asked him out, but Kasamatsu’s not going to lay flat and let Kise take the lead. He’s still older; he should still have a better idea of what he wants.  
  
And, while he doesn’t have any idea whatsoever, he’s pretty sure Kise doesn’t, either. The conversation is light; Kasamatsu stares at his menu, which is exactly the opposite of what Moriyama had said but, well.  
  
“You look, uh, Good,” says Kasamatsu, and he cringes down at the list of appetizers.  
  
“I’m wearing my school uniform,” says Kise, smile audile in his voice.  
  
Kasamatsu clears his throat. “Uh, yeah. Still.”  
  
“Are you saying I always look good?”  
  
Kise’s definitely teasing him here, eyes dancing and sparkling more than the glass of seltzer on his side of the table. Kasamatsu swallows.  
  
“You don’t need me to tell you that, Brat.”  
  
“But I’d like to hear it from you,” says Kise.  
  
Kasamatsu rolls his eyes, and then Kise bumps his knee. Kasamatsu tries not to grip the menu harder, taking a shallow breath and a sip of his water, but he almost slams it back against the table, right on top of the same ring of condensation bleeding through the paper placemat. This isn’t working; it goes and then it doesn’t; Kise’s still Kise and Kasamatsu’s still himself and they’ve been flirting a while but this is too heavy. There is some sort of expectation on him, some sort of burden that Kasamatsu can’t see; he doesn’t know how to lift his half of it. KAsamatsu lets Kise order for both of them, and once the waiter has disappeared Kasamatsu leans his elbow on the table and runs a hand through his hair.  
  
“I’m sorry, Kise. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing with this. I like you, but I don’t think I’m showing it right.”  
  
Kise leans forward, and for a second Kasamatsu wonders if Kise’s going to kiss him right here, blood rushing into his head.   
  
“It’s okay, Senapi. I know what to do. Just follow my lead.”  
  
Kise’s hand is under the table, on Kasamatsu’s knee. Kasamatsu reaches over and covers it; pressing down a little too hard to prevent his knee from trembling. It’s not ideal still, but it’s a step.


	79. kikasa, wanted

Kise is used to being wanted, the one out of reach, at arm’s length from the person who wants him, some fan on the other side of a screen, a kid who buys his photobook across the country and sees his airbrushed face, someone staring at him like an enemy across the court when their blocks land nowhere near his arms, their shots teeter and fall away from the rims. Kise’s not used to wanting, though basketball’s put him closer to that side than he’s ever been. Maybe he should have expected it, then, with Kasamatsu after he goes to college.  
  
He’s in Tokyo, Kise’s hometown, not that far away but far enough. Far enough that it’s a train ride, that it gets dark as the summer goes on, that Kise can barely find time. He’s there for work often enough but school and basketball are forcing him to cut back (and making him more in demand, which has its pros and cons). He doesn’t meet up with Kasamatsu; he barely has time to meet up with his other friends even when they have games against each other.   
  
He doesn’t expect his job to get cancelled at the last minute, a sick photographer and a fired art director, a promised rescheduling and reimbursement, but his agent can handle all of that. It’s a welcome change in the sea of being busy all the damn time, a few hours before his train back to burn studying or goofing off at a coffee shop. He really doesn’t expect to find Kasamatsu sitting at a table with an empty seat, but Kise’s got to get lucky sometimes (perhaps he should text Midorima and see if Oha-Asa’s lucky item for him is a cup of coffee today).  
  
“Kasamatsu-san!”  
  
“Kise,” says Kasamatsu.  
  
There are bags under his eyes; the textbook in front of him looks heavy and monotonous. He has a blue highlighter pen; it’s almost Kaijou’s blue and the thought of that makes Kise smile.  
  
“Can I sit here?”  
  
Kasamatsu nods.  
  
They study together in pleasant silence, the buzz of ambient music and quick discussion all around them. Kise gets more done right there (maybe it’s the threat of Kasamatsu yelling at him) than he had during all of last week’s hours at the library with Nakamura. Still, when he looks up, the few centimeters between Kise’s laptop and Kasamatsu’s book, the knowledge that two sets of knees are crammed under the small table—Kise’s not going to deny that it makes him feel something kind of funny in his chest, like Kasamatsu’s back within his reach, like they’re about to take on Seirin and win.


	80. kikasa, take the world back

Humans love to categorize and generalize; Kise’s no scientist but he’s read enough pop psychology articles to know that much. And it’s true for him, as much as he loves to differentiate himself (as much as other people love to differentiate him from their numbers, like if they put him in some other category it will excuse their own inadequacies). His own life can fit into neatly-stacked periods; early childhood and then the time he could remember up through elementary school, and then modeling and then basketball and then.  
  
High school, Kasamatsu, not to put too fine a point on it. It’s not like he’d immediately fallen hard for Kasamatsu and all of a sudden Kasamatsu had become his world. He hadn’t even really thought about Kasamatsu like that at first, just a guy doing his job trying to fit Kise into a box he didn’t think would contain him, a good teammate then, a strong player. There is no moment when Kise had started to think of Kasamatsu a certain way, but that boundary doesn’t need to be defined, because things had still been the same, Kasamatsu doing the opposite of his middle school teammates, instead of pulling him into a world pulling him out into the world around him. Technical basketball, standing out but still being part of something larger than himself and a few others, the whole Kaijou team, the whole ecosystem of the school it fit into. Kise’s never liked comparing middle school and high school, but they were both different.  
  
And he’d held onto Kasamatsu after that, clutching at his hand, pulling him in closer, trying to pull the world in smaller around them until the strings between them had broken from the stress, fraying and snapping while Kise had watched and hoped, delusional, that they would reinforce themselves. But they hadn’t, and Kasamatsu is left on his side of the world and Kise his own, and it already feels so much smaller.  
  
It might sound stupid to say this when he’s in a hotel room in New Orleans, kilometers and borders away from home, when his physical world is bigger than maybe earth itself. And it’s not like Kise can’t go to places he can now, that Kasamatsu had forcibly taken the world back. But without him, Kise’s on his own again, and if there’s no one to share it with then what is the world?


	81. kikasa, sundays

Kise visits on Sundays, the tiny off-campus apartment that’s barely got room for two people but has three full time. With Kise it’s bursting at the seams (Moriyama says it’s cozy; Kasamatsu kicks him out of the bedroom and promises him when he’s got someone he can have it to himself) even if it’s only once a week, even if it’s only for a few hours while they rest together. Moriyama has stupid ideas (like that they’re always fucking each other’s brains out, which, please—even if they’d wanted to they wouldn’t have the energy) but most of the time they just talk, touch, voices quiet. This is their break from the rest of the world, from school and work and basketball, things they want and need but can’t deal with every hour of every day.  
  
They can’t deal with each other all of the time, either, but all of that stuff gets saved for phone calls, raised voices, anger peeling at each other’s skin like chemicals, anger at the rest of the world, at time for never being enough to fit both of them in. They don’t need much, but it’s more than what they have, stolen and grasped at, between shirked duties and accidental blocks of free space, Kasamatsu buying Kise’s favorite tea at the grocery store and Kise tapping out a text message on a break when someone’s fussing over his makeup.  
  
But it’s there like a bookend, this week to the next, each small divider of breathing room between pedal to the metal, skin worn to the bone, work and school and basketball and money drained by rent and bills and tuition before they can enjoy it. They just have each other, body heat, kisses on Kise’s collarbone, Kise tracing the outline of Kasamatsu’s bicep and smiling, the glint of his teeth in the light filtered through the clouds outside.  
  
They can’t shirk forever; they have to get up and take a shower, soap on tired skin in the steam (if there’s any hot water left) and hot coffee afterward, Kise’s hair curling dry like paper with the heat from the drink, dried fingers linked together, a well-worn muscle memory by this point. Kise kisses Kasamatsu goodbye at the door every time he leaves; they’re always out of breath when they break it, one last stolen fraction of a second from the rest of their lives.


	82. kikasa, hancock au

Kise needs to rehabilitate his image; there’s no question about that. Yeah, he’s been given a long leash because he’s pretty, but he’s fucked up too much and people don’t forgive when it’s their loved ones hurt and killed, collateral damage in a fight that shouldn’t have gotten that big, should have been handled by the police.   
  
“You need to do better,” says Kasamatsu. “Don’t step in if you don’t need to.”  
  
Kise looks at Kasamatsu like who is he to judge, and Kasamatsu feels like his insides are ripped out, the same as that time they were the last time he and Kise had been together and everything had started to go, before Kise had ran and before his memories had been knocked out of him. It’s better for him not to know; it’s better for him to not remember, to pass through and for his powers to falter but then flare up all over again.   
  
(But who is Kasamatsu to judge? He’s living with the choice; Kise’s living like he’s alone forever, and maybe he’s the one who’s right.)  
  
They were immortals together, so long ago when the sky was brighter and the air was more open, when there was more space to fly, when there had been others like them, before the others levitated down to the earth and settled in, embracing their humanity as they had once embraced each other in the air, as they embraced themselves getting older, returning to the earth. Kise and Kasamatsu hadn’t, a choice that no one else had even thought making, a choice that Kasamatsu had made, pushing Kise away until their wounds began to fade on their own. Too bad heartbreak lasts forever.  
  
It’s Kasamatsu who breaks first, when he shoves Kise off of him, across the room, when Kise leans in too close like flirting with him is a fucking game, like he’s just another disposable person at Kise’s leisure to use.   
  
“You’re like me,” says Kise.  
  
Kasamatsu wants to say they’re nothing alike, but they’re too goddamn alike and that’s the problem.   
  
“I’ve always been like you,” says Kasamatsu, and he takes another breath.  
  
(If this is Kise’s choice, too, which will he choose this time through, which will he choose without remembering that they were immortal together, but only knowing that there’s no going back on something familiar and unfamiliar? Kasamatsu knows what the old Kise would choose, what the old Kise had chosen, but not this one)


	83. kikasa, reincarnation

“Don’t make me wait longer,” says Kise.  
  
It’s been five lifetimes since they could be together, at least five for Kasamatsu. Some he was lonely; some he was already with someone else before he met Kise; some Kise had never appeared at all. Everything had always been wrong, until Kasamatsu had begun to think that maybe they wouldn’t work, maybe if he waited and fended off other advances for five more lifetimes Kise would still not appear.   
  
“Make you wait?” says Kasamatsu. “You think I haven’t?”  
  
Kise sighs, light and quiet like Kasamatsu just doesn’t get it. Maybe he doesn’t, but he doesn’t know what there is to not get. He bumps his nose against Kise’s; Kise smiles (Kasamatsu has to go slightly cross-eyed to see it from this close) and then they kiss. Kasamatsu’s definitely been waiting for this, Kise’s lips soft on his, and all of the years fall away, all of the people Kasamatsu’s been, every intermediate Kise, everything they were back then, too. It’s who they are now, the cores of them, worth hundreds of years of stowed-away feelings.  
  
-  
  
Their lives cycle in and out after that, twenty years between them and they meet on the street and the time is wrong because Kise’s married and Kasamatsu’s young and has dreams and there will be other lifetimes even though he wants now, now, now; the time is wrong when Kasamatsu never meets him and when Kasamatsu is a servant and Kise the master of the house, their eyes never meeting (Kasamatsu praying Kise never sees him like this, doesn’t want his pity or his patronage).  
  
But even if things are against them they’ll luck into being together again eventually, kind of a shitty copout but Kasamastu’s lived enough lives to know when to be patient, to know he’ll always recognize Kise and usually find him if he’s there. It takes a few more runs, one in which Kise is a pro soccer player and one in which Kasamatsu is a journalist knocking on door but never running into him until they meet again.  
  
“You took your sweet time,” Kise says, as Kasamatsu drops in to sit down next to him and their shoulders brush against each other.  
  
“Don’t make me wait longer,” says Kasamatsu.  
  
Kise’s smile is brighter than all the suns saved up over Kasamatsu’s lifetimes, brighter than a nuclear explosion, but Kasamatsu won’t look away. So many lifetimes or no, it’s always beautiful.


	84. murahimu, candy wrapper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> contains eating of candy wrappers

It had started out with just candy. The chocolate melting in his pocket, the hard candies from his schoolbag, slipped small into his mouth, kissed into Himuro’s when Murasakibara had thought he’d looked hungry, the chewy stuff that sticks to his teeth. Candy is good; Murasakibara’s got no complaints about it, and he’s okay with sharing if it’s Himuro. Himuro doesn’t ask for too much, but he takes what is offered, the sound of him sucking on the hardened sugar pleasing to Murasakibara’s ears.   
  
But Murasakibara’s always hungry and there isn’t always more, after curfew when he can’t sneak out (it’s awfully hard when you’re as big as him) or when they’re stuck on a bus somewhere and they’ve eaten everything, Himuro telling him not to make such a mess Atsushi, kissing the chocolate stains from his lips and tasting of sweet strawberry.  
  
When chocolate melts in his pocket it sticks to the plastic, the insides streaked sweet and dry. It’ll have to do; the chocolate tastes as it always does but the wrapper underneath crinkles in his mouth, slides frictionless between his teeth. Himuro glances up at him but says nothing. Murasakibara bites a hole along the serrated edge, swallows the piece of plastic down. He’s still not full, but this is something to do with his mouth.  
  
It’s not good for him; Himuro tells him that in the same tone he talks about the candy and the chips and the other snacks. He shows Murasakibara images of animals washed up on beaches, stomachs spilling over with plastics. Murasakibara bites them smaller, feels them slide down his throat and stick to the insides, the feeling of it long gone after he’s had a whole bottle of water. No matter; he hasn’t choked yet; his stomach hasn’t twisted itself inside out yet. He eats them sparingly, a treat on top of what’s already supposed to be a treat, the sound like a zipper through the insides of his teeth. creasing as he rubs them across; he feels the plastic bunch up, hears it crinkle. He can chew the sugar, the dye, from one small piece of plastic for an hour, like gum that never loses its texture.   
  
He starts giving the candy over to Himuro, sometimes, a piece of chocolate here or a hard candy there, placing it on Himuro’s tongue, watching as he chews, biting through caramel and nougat, the crunching bitter. Better if it were a flat crinkle, woven plastic, unsustainable except under his tongue.


	85. murahimu, despair and hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some kind of magical? au

Tatsuya’s right eye sees hope; his left sees despair. He covers the left, pretends to be an optimist, like that’s going to stop it from pulling, from dominating. Hope is light and easy; hope lets things lie; despair claws on them, sinks its teeth in and won’t let go; weeks later its body is dried up and close to dead but it’s still there, its venom slow and impossible to suck out. No matter how much favor he gives his right eye the left still wins out over time, whispering to Tatsuya that this person is better, why keep going when they’ll always be better, this goal you’re trying to visualize is not meant for you. Hope burns brighter, but despair burns hotter, longer.   
  
He covers his left eye further, and Taiga almost disappears, a fuzzy outline of hope, all the good parts of him and yet. Every failure he represents. He’s untouchable on the court; he’s moving faster; in him there is no despair half trying to take over. There is nothing clawing at his insides; there is only him, good enough and happy enough to let that buoy him. Maybe that’s what spells their doom as brothers.  
  
He doesn’t want to try it with Atsushi, but it ends up happening, an accident in the morning, shielding his eye against the sun. Atsushi blends into the bright light behind him, but he’s there; all of him is ever so present in the land of Tatsuya’s hopes (hopes for Yosen, hopes for the future, perhaps—for himself, for now). He switches eyes, and Atsushi’s just as clear in despair (the zone Tatsuya will never reach, the power he will never have, the raw strength of whose reserves Atsushi’s barely needed to touch). The despair he tries to claw away, the voice that says _you will never_.   
  
“What’s up?” Atsushi says, leaning in, threading his fingers through the right side of Tatsuya’s hair and kissing him.  
  
He will never, maybe; he will never be that good; he will never have that. But he will try anyway. Tatsuya closes his eyes, breathing in Atsushi’s scent, processed sugar and fake strawberries and shampoo, despair and hope and all the things threaded in between, all the things that make Atsushi and that are his right now, in this moment. He wants everything else, too, still, but this might be a good place to start.


	86. murahimu, surreal

It’s a little bit surreal, even now. Atsushi doesn’t think it is; with him it always is how it is and this is another step on the way. Even if he hadn’t expected Tatsuya to make it here on this stage, to be as big of a star as he is, he just accepts it. It’s hard for Tatsuya to think he’s not still dreaming, because he’s been dreaming of this his whole life, the sounds, the feeling, the sight of the official ball flying off his fingertips, the uniform (maybe not this one in particular) and the number on his chest.  
  
And the all-star game; this he had imagined, so many times, his hands reaching out into a shooting motion as he’d fallen asleep, picturing himself at the center of the court, winning the three-point contest and the dunk contest (though both of those had faded, he’s still here). He and Atsushi are on opposite sides of the court, as they always are (opposite conferences, opposite professional teams, opposite national teams) and yet. Here it’s different; the stakes are lower even if they play their hearts out (Atsushi will even if he’ll pretend not to; Tatsuya sees no reason not to try because he wants to win).  
  
Tatsuya’s already gotten sick of hotel rooms; even considering the upgrade from his college years to now it’s still the same, unfamiliar and made up by someone else for the general someone. He can’t complain about expensive shampoo or gigantic bathtubs, king-size beds and big televisions. But it’s still nothing like home, a real kitchen, things that are his. The all-star game hotel is no different, but at least he’s here with Atsushi; the bed’s not too big when he’s on there alone and Atsushi musses up the covers so it looks a little bit more like someone lives there.  
  
It’s no substitute for being at home together but it’s not supposed to be; it’s a night where they’re playing against each other for bragging rights the next day, where there will be plenty of photo ops to smile at each other, where they can fight for the ball and take things way too seriously and get called out for it, but where they’ll end up in the same room the next night, too. Atsushi always says it’s not a real break when you’re doing work, but a vacation with basketball and with Atsushi is, in Tatsuya’s mind, the perfect one.


	87. murahimu, up against the door

Himuro’s up against the door again; Murasakibara can feel it in the air. He’s so close to the zone, closer than he should be, closer than he should be capable of at all, but there he is, pushing himself beyond the limits, beyond where he should have snapped (he’s so brittle and yet, here he is, bending against the wind. He can’t even see the door the way Murasakibara can; he can’t see it but he’s feeling for it anyway, his shitty depth perception getting everything in the way.   
  
It’s not like Kuroko would think to guard it against Himuro; it’s not like Kuroko would think Himuro would get this far (well, probably). He’s not standing in the way; the only thing standing int he way is Himuro’s own lack of availability and yet he’s close enough to knock if he moves his hand the right way. It’s annoying, how much he tries, how he wastes his energy on the impossible when they have a game to win.  
  
It’s not like they’re not winning, or like Himuro’s costing them with all of this. But you can’t get into the zone just by trying; you have to be pushed over the edge (but Himuro would be the paradox, the one to push himself). His shots are on point, inside twos and long threes. His passes are crips, his dribbles sharp, his steals too fast. His strides are lengthening; his face is focusing; he’s at that point where he absolutely shouldn’t be, fumbling for the door.  
  
Murasakibara grabs the rebound as the ball clatters off the hoop, passing it ahead for Himuro. They’re on him, double-teaming him; he somehow gets a fadeaway shot off; the whistle doesn’t blow even though that’s at least two fouls on him. The ball bounces off the rim and Himuro swears; he’s been pushed back away from the door, into the middle of the room and he can’t tell which way’s the right wall. He wouldn’t have gotten there anyway if that’s what’s going to knock him away. Coach calls timeout.  
  
“For a captain you think about yourself an awful lot,” says Murasakibara.  
  
“The team goes as I go,” says Himuro, and he’s not strictly lying.   
  
Murasakibara wants to kiss the smug look from his face, but someone’s got to go out there and focus, so he doesn’t. Maybe if Himuro had zoned, Murasakibara would have done it anyway, just to bring him out—but it’s no use focusing on the impossible when there’s a game to play.


	88. murahimu, ice cream

“Muro-chin, it’s hot.” Atsushi drags out his voice, or really it drags itself out of him; it's hot and he’s still hungry and Tatsuya’s not helping.  
  
Tatsuya doesn’t reply, and Atsushi looks up; he must have crept out when he thought Atsushi was asleep, sound dying under the spinning of the fan’s blades. Atsushi shifts his head closer to the fan, willing it to blow on his head and dry the sweat. It’s at the highest setting but it’s still not working (but Akita summer still might be better than Tokyo, even though that’s a shitty choice). Atsushi sighs; his breath his hot but the moving air feels good against his chin. He closes his eyes again.  
  
He’s listening for the door as it opens this time, the squeak; there’s a convenience store shopping bag under Tatsuya’s arm and Atsushi hopes it’s food (Liu keeps scolding Tatsuya for spoiling Atsushi, but that makes Tatsuya do it more, sneak him an extra bag of chips with a wink, and Atsushi can’t complain about that). He drops the bag on the edge of Atsushi’s desk with a thump and turns around to close the door; Atsushi narrows his eyes, guessing at the outline of what’s inside the bag. Tatsuya pulls it out before he can make a concrete definition; it’s a pint of ice cream and only one plastic spoon. Atsushi sighs; it looks half-melted already.  
  
“Are you hungry?” says Tatsuya.   
  
Atsushi nods, and Tatsuya sits down on the bed (his body’s too warm; Atsushi focuses on the ice cream, red velvet flavor). He takes the top off, separating it slowly and scraping the half-melted ice cream stuck to it with the spoon, holding it out to Atsushi. Atsushi’s mouth closes around it; he whines when it’s not cold enough.  
  
“More.”  
  
Tatsuya takes a spoonful from the top, and then lifts it toward his own mouth. Atsushi rolls his eyes, but still watches as his mouth closes around the spoon, the way his tongue darts out pink to lick his lips. He dips his finger in the ice cream; it’s cool and smooth and he digs out a chunk of cake surrounded by frosting and ice cream; it drips onto the bedspread as he pulls it in toward his mouth and sucks it off with a smack. He watches Tatsuya watch him, Tatsuya’s eye closing slightly.  
  
“It’s too hot for that,” says Atushi.  
  
“I don’t know,” says Tatsuya, leaning in and kissing the sugar from his lips.


	89. haikise, models au

Shougo looks at Ryouta like competition from the start. Ryouta’s not here to make friends, really, but it would be nice if the others were a little warmer; it would be nice if Shougo hadn’t decided to swear them in as enemies before Ryouta had even said anything to him. He supposes later on that that’s naive, but even so. Maybe it’s just a sly compliment, the thought that some new kid who didn’t know what he was doing could challenge Shougo just because he’d had the same body type and a face that could arrange itself into anything (sweetheart, bad boy, younger, older, buy my clothes).   
  
“Beginner’s luck,” Shougo had sneered at him.  
  
(“You only get a few years before they toss you out,” Midorima had told Ryouta at around the same time. “You started late; don’t fuck it up and you can still earn some money.” What a way to live.)  
  
They both get chosen for some streetwear campaign, sold to the agency on how supposedly-innovative it is but Ryouta’s already jaded enough to know better. The makeup artists are the same; the photographers look like they don’t know what they’re doing; the poses they’ve talked about are the same ones Ryouta’s done a thousand times before.  
  
“This is all about darkness and light,” the director announces, but what he means is pale foundation on Ryouta’s face, lamps beaming into his eyes, the silhouette of Shougo behind him.   
  
Shougo, whose dyed hair they had loved but cut a little shorter, the same length as Ryouta’s; even with the ever-present sneer and the tight pants and the hideous fake tattoo they paint over Shougo’s chest, with all the fake eyelashes they put on Shougo (his eyelids are faltering with the weight but that’s the look they’re going for) he could be Ryouta’s wry mirror, cracked and spoked. They stare each other in the face; Ryouta memorizes the shape of Shougo’s eyes, the shade of grey in his irises, the contours of his lovely cheekbones.  
  
He comes to Ryouta’s dressing room afterwards, forcing open the unlocked door without knocking.  
  
“Hey, Ryouta," says Shougo.  
  
He’s wearing more clothes now, the fake tattoo sticking out from under the sleeve of his garish shirt (for a model he knows awfully little about clothes) and all the makeup washed off his face. He still looks odd with the shorter hair, and Ryouta’s not sure if he likes it or not.  
  
“I saw you looking at me,” he says, lowering his voice in the way that he thinks makes him sound so sexy and irresistible but really makes him sound like he smokes too many cigarettes.  
  
“Following directions,” says Ryouta, lightly.  
  
“I’ll fuck you if you want,” says Shougo.  
  
“When you put it like that,” says Ryouta (but there’s something to be said for directness in this world of petty competition, where the closer you get to someone the more you exploit them, the more you hope they fail). “How could I say no?”  
  
Shougo’s mouth twists into a smile that’s not cute but pretty damn striking, enough to get him as far as he wants.


	90. aomura, awards show

It’s getting harder for Aomine to stay still the longer this awards show drags on. It’s nice; he’s glad to come. He’s glad to be in the conversation for some of these awards even if he hasn’t won anything, and even if Murasakibara won’t admit he’s upset he didn’t. Still, even when it’s him up there making a speech he likes to keep it short, likes the cameras off his face. They flash back to him where he is every so often, crammed so close next to Murasakibara that they have to share the armrest in order to fit. That’s just how it is. That’s just the same reason Aomine’s knee is touching Murasakibara’s legs, that there’s no distance between their feet. They’re big guys is all.   
  
It’s like the feeling of being buzzed, two beers in ten minutes and he’s drinking another as the feeling settles into him, the warmth on his face, the jittering under his skin. It’s a little ridiculous, maybe, but the longer this shit drags on the more he wants to jump Murasakibara’s bones in the middle of the audience and the more he thinks about how stupid that is (and how little he actually wants that, really, even outside of dealing with the fallout; there’s people everywhere and not enough room and if they could, like, teleport back home that would be great).   
  
Murasakibara brushes his pinky over the back of Aomine’s knuckles, then leans over like he’s going to say something.  
  
“Stop doing that.”  
  
“Doing what?” says Aomine.  
  
“All of it,” says Murasakibara.  
  
His voice sounds a little bit strained, even with the usual irritation; Aomine clenches his fist and then lets go. There’s a lot of these left to go; counting down just makes it seem so much farther away. Murasakibara lurches to his feet, his leg nudging Aomine’s. He jerks his head as he files out, making it look like his flicking his hair over his shoulder. It feels like eight years, a few lines in a speech to stumble over, before Aomine gets up, too, as if he’d suddenly realized he’d forgotten something.  
  
Murasakibara’s waiting in the courtyard; there’s plenty of dark corners even with all the agents and executives smoking and barking on their phones. They’re all too absorbed in wheeling and dealing and Aomine feels drunk on Murasakibara all over again, his hair pulled away from his face and the line of his nose as he looks down, the suit that even well-tailored strains against his fucking gigantic shoulders. There’s an alcove; Murasakibara has to duck to fit under the arch and Aomine’s not sure what they’re waiting for now.


	91. aomidokise, semifinals

  
The conference semifinals begin with all four of them left and end with Ryouta’s team knocked out and Daiki and Shintarou left to battle it out for the one eastern conference spot in the finals. It’s not fair, but basketball never is, and maybe it is fair that Ryouta’s team had lost in five games to the Suns; maybe it’s fair that Daiki and Shintarou are the best. It’s horribly unfair that they’ll never play each other in the finals if they stay where they are (but Ryouta can’t imagine them being traded, the franchises being built up around them to pull ahead in the east) but that’s exhausting in its own way (Ryouta knows that from experience). And this time he’s the odd one out, on the outside looking in on Daiki and Shintarou.  
  
But it won’t be over after this; one of them will keep playing and the other will nurse his wounds. They’ll all be in the same city; they’ll both end up supporting the third of them.   
  
“Who are you rooting for?” is what Daiki greets Ryouta with.  
  
Ryouta rolls his eyes. “I’m rooting for a good series, and for both of you to do well.”  
  
“Come on,” says Daiki. “I know you like Cleveland better as a city, and we have the better team. Though if you feel sorry for Shintarou…”  
  
Shintarou snorts, pinching Daiki’s ear; Daiki slaps at him and Shintarou crosses his arms.   
  
“You two are full of energy at least,” says Ryouta.  
  
“I’m sorry,” says Daiki, his arm winding around Ryouta’s waist, kissing Ryouta’s cheek.  
  
They’d both sent apology texts after the loss; the weight sinks again in Ryouta’s chest thinking about that night all over again, hitting shot after shot but digging himself further into a hole, being scored on too fast too soon, trying to be five places at once. He slides his other hand into Shintarou’s and Shintarou smiles back at him. It’s easier for them to be gracious when they’re still in it, but it doesn’t feel too bad.   
  
“He’s rooting for the Celtics, of course,” says Shintarou.  
  
“Ryouta,” Daiki whines, kissing his cheek again.  
  
Ryouta smiles; it’s fun when they try to bribe him even if this is all a badly-disguised ploy to cheer him up (because it’s working and because he knows on some level they are pretty damn invested in getting his preference).  
  
“I'm glad to be here,” he says, pulling both Daiki and Shintarou in towards him (with a “that’s not an answer” from Daiki and a “shut up” from Shintarou).


	92. aokuro, sonnets

i. aomine  
  
Well, is it that the past is just a dream?  
A thing so rendered we could not sustain?  
We’ve changed so much, perhaps enough to seem  
that from that time, little does remain  
  
A hole through my own chest, a hole in yours  
the shape and size familiar metal hoop  
filled now, a reconstruction of our cores  
the lock and key don’t match, don’t close the loop  
  
between us, but then nothing ever will.  
An open game, the shot clock won’t run out.  
You look at me, same feelings are there still  
(a different you, a different me, no doubt)  
  
My shot with you went off the backboard then  
But now, new you, new me—let’s try again?  
  
ii. kuroko  
  
We are different now; that much is true.  
The way we fit is not intuitive.  
Across the court the one I see’s still you  
and yes, by now we both know how to live  
  
apart; we fill our cavities with air  
but know my thoughts have always been with that:  
a time, a place, the two of us, and where  
you looked at me; you made my world collapse  
  
until it was just you and me, the light  
and shadow, pass to shot, to touch, to kiss.  
The war between us dead, the final fight  
results in draws, a takeaway; I miss  
  
you, and us, the things we’ll never be  
again, but yes, I want to try and see.  
  
iii. both  
  
A compromise is not so easy, though  
a compromise between the way we are  
and who we used to be—it’s hard to know  
the way that we confuse an image, far  
  
from current, for the present state, until  
it stumbles over cracks, and twists and falls.  
We’re getting better, though, we fit and fill  
the gaps that once existed; those are all  
  
becoming smaller, closing like old wounds  
to scar and fade and overlay with real  
and present happiness, what once was doomed  
renewed, no, now destroyed; we’ve made a deal  
  
with past and future; now we’re even set  
together now, the warmth outshines regret.


	93. kagahimu, the mist

They meet in the mist, as they always do. It’s always a long time between their meetings; a pattern never emerges. There are more unknowns than knowns; the longer Taiga knows Tatsuya, the better he knows him, the more he knows he doesn’t know. There are basic things, what Tatsuya is—but Taiga knows enough of that. He knows the way Tatsuya touches him, gently; he knows the sound of his voice, the faraway look in his eye sometimes. He knows Tatsuya’s transience; he’d say he has some ethereal quality but he is so solid, so clearly of this world, feet nailed to the ground, that saying that would feel like a lie.  
  
But he knows the way Tatsuya cooks, messy and wasteful, but how he can make something out of only a few scattered ingredients, how he licks raw cake batter from the spoon and offers it to Taiga, how Taiga tastes it on his tongue when they kiss over the top of the bowl. There is so much of him that is solid, so much he has show Taiga; there is so much behind that, too.   
  
There are things he’s ashamed of, things he thinks are too far from Taiga to let him know, things Taiga chips away at only for Tatsuya to flit away, vanishing in the sun like burned-off fog. Every time Taiga gets closer he stays the same distance, a mirage of a desert oasis, the wrong bend of the light.   
  
Taiga waits, still. Not every night (sometimes he wonders if those are the nights Tatsuya comes, when he’s gone for a particularly long time and comes back with a fresh set of bruises across his knuckles, pretends they’re not tender to the brush of Taiga’s lips across them) but most nights, when there’s mist, when he can stand by the river with a warm thermos full of tea and wait for Tatsuya to emerge, out of the fog, his curtain of hair like rain.   
  
Maybe Taiga deserves something more concrete; maybe he wants something more consistent. But he won’t have anything less than Tatsuya, and anything else is something less, something he’s not interested in right now. Tatsuya is difficult, vexing; there’s no number to call or address to reach him at, and the mystery’s no longer a part of his charm, just another thing Taiga might not be patient enough to unravel. But if it’s Tatsuya, he’s going to try.


	94. aohimu, let's not waste time

Aomine would like to think that he’s not totally pathetic over Himuro. Yeah, Himuro’s pretty; he’s got that lovely eye and lovelier mouth (spitting trash talk from across the court like venom, steel in his veins until you manage to fumble your way into hitting his buttons and all of a sudden it's molten) and a gorgeous fadeaway he takes even when no one’s guarding him because it still counts the same (two points, three, enough either way). And so yeah, Himuro makes him a little bit stupid, catching his eye from across the room, silver cufflinks glinting in the low light—but Himuro makes a lot of people stupid like that (and the way Kagami talks about it he’s a fucking serial flirt) so Aomine can’t feel too bad.  
  
There's a drink in Himuro’s hand, telltale gold of some undiluted hard liquor, ice sparkling on top as he takes another sip, face frozen in place (of course he can handle that; of course he’s had that kind of practice; of course he knows how to look every bit as picturesque as some marquee superspy movie star). Aomine sighs, clenching his jaw. There’s only so much of this event he can take; Himuro moves away from his companion, a laugh on his face, and Aomine wants to make him laugh.  
  
He might as well not let another chance pass him by, not let the shot clock tick out of seconds. He leaves his drink on the bar, wipes his hand on the inside of his pants pocket, and makes his way over. Himuro catches his eye again when he’s halfway there, cocking his head and leaning his elbow on the well-placed table.  
  
“Aomine. It’s good to see you.”  
  
“Uh,” says Aomine, coughing. “Good to see you, too. Nice party, huh?”  
  
Himuro smiles, bringing the glass back up to his lips. “Yes it is.”  
  
“Are you staying here tonight?”  
  
(Maybe that’s too bold; maybe that’s too forward; Aomine’s bad at being subtle sometimes and maybe Himuro will appreciate him sticking to what he knows how to do, if that’s a little bit better.)  
  
“They booked me a room,” says Himuro, inclining his head as if waiting for Aomine to continue.  
  
“You want to show me what it looks like?”  
  
“Now?” says Himuro.  
  
Aomine nods, sharply, before he can even consider (though he’d rather not stay here and wait for Himuro to change his mind while he pictures him, stripping off the three-piece suit, sweat on his flushed face, lips staining Aomine’s mouth with alcohol).   
  
“Let’s not waste time,” says Himuro, and damn if Aomine doesn’t hang back just to watch his ass as he walks.


	95. garciraki, together

It still feels like there’s too much distance between them, and Masako’s less than a foot away. Maybe Alex is just being greedy; how can she feel like this when they’ve spent so long so far from each other? Maybe she’s greedy but maybe she ought to be for putting up with so much distance for so long, for all those times she’s far away and Masako’s tired or grouchy or hurting and Alex is too far away to hold her and words on a telephone are not even close to enough. That makes the decision for her; even though Masako’s fine now there’s too much to make up for, too much the distance has robbed them of. Alex rolls over, halfway on top of Masako. She loops her arm around Masako’s waist, pulling her closer on the bed, her fingers lost in the soft folds of Masako’s shirt.  
  
Masako yawns, arching her back, fitting perfectly against Alex, the muscles in her shoulders and the shape of her spine, her ass and the back of her thighs. She twists a little, squinting in the gauzy curtain-filtered sunlight. Without her glasses, Alex can’t see her that sharply even up close but she can tell the shape of Masako’s smile, the outline of her hand as she reaches up to tangle it in Alex’s hair and pull her in for a kiss.   
  
“Good morning.”  
  
It’s a really fucking good morning to wake up next to her, to have nowhere to be except here, with just the two of them. Alex hugs Masako closer, kissing her neck down to the stretched-out neckline of her shirt, feeling her stomach move as she sighs. This is still too much, almost enough, but Alex doesn’t want to get caught up in memorizing the shape of Masako in her arms, the way she looks all fuzzy and out of focus, the way she smells mixed in with Alex’s detergent and Alex’s shampoo. Maybe she’ll wish she had when Masako’s gone again, when she reaches out with her fingers and only feels air. But right now it’s too solid; she’s too solid (the ripple of her abs, the small birthmark on the back of her elbow, the space she takes up just by breathing, the end of her ponytail scratching at Alex’s bare side). It’s just as easy to focus on the present moment and revel in it, though, when it’s this good, this real, so unbelievable it crosses back over into things better than Alex could ever dream up.


	96. kikasa, breakup

“I think,” says Kise, stopping himself like he’s biting his tongue.  
  
Kasamatsu knows what’s coming next but he can’t stop it; he can’t stop Kise from saying his piece, from saying what he can’t take back, what neither of them wants to hear (Kise’s eyes are red-stained at the sides, like they’ve been overwashed).   
  
“I think we should let this go,” says Kise. “Break up, see other people.”  
  
A sound comes out of Kasamatsu’s throat, not a sigh or a sob or a groan, but something, before he can stop it. Kise looks unfazed, like he wants to flinch but like he deserves it. He’s not one to give himself extra shit but he’s doing it here; he’s already hurting and they’re still together.  
  
Kasamatsu sighs, for real this time. “Yeah. I’m going to college; we’re going to be in different places.”  
  
He reaches out to hold Kise’s hand, thumb rubbing over Kise’s knuckles, the soft skin, the mole he likes to pretend isn’t there (not a flaw, lovely, unique to him; Kasamatsu’s kissed it once when he’d been feeling particularly cheesy about Kise). Kise squeezes back, sad smile brushing his lips like the food he pretends to eat in commercials, and Kasamatsu squints at him.  
  
“I’m not going to leave you for something out there,” says Kasamatsu. “If you’re worried about that.”  
  
Kise shrugs; even if that’s part of it that’s not all of it. It’s easy to pledge themselves to each other when there’s just a few thin dorm room walls between them, still weeks before they go their separate ways, two years (might as well be a lifetime) or even longer, depending on where they end up. There’s shit Kise has to deal with; there’s shit Kasamatsu has to deal with, spreading out of the box he’s learned to live in here, things that by necessity won’t include Kise. Kise’s nothing like a burden; Kise could probably manage to keep up with most of it—but that’s not a burden Kasamatsu wants to put on Kise. The burden of being the ace is enough, isn’t it?   
  
“But, well,” says Kasamatsu, and he wonders if Kise expects him to give some good, tough captain’s speech here (but there’s nothing he can do to prepare for this). “Yeah. We should. I’m sorry, Kise.”  
  
“Me, too,” says Kise (and were this about anything else Kasamatsu would take a bigger note of getting a sincere apology from that guy, but here it’s more bitter than anything else).


	97. kikasa, it would be easier

It would be easier if Kise was a nice guy. It would be easier if he was a little meaner, a little more inconsiderate, a little more something that could override the pretty, the basketball, the obnoxious chirpiness that somehow seems so attractive. Or if he was the same, and Kasamatsu just didn’t fucking like him (it’s not an impossible scenario; he doesn’t want to like Kise). But there’s no use wishing for what’s not there; there’s no use in wishing for Kise and there’s no use in wishing he didn’t wish for Kise in the first place. There’s just life, just moving on and dealing with this shitty crush until it goes away on its own.  
  
It’s a problem because he has to spend so much time with Kise already, but it’s more of a problem because Kise is Kise, always whining to Kasamatsu, always fucking batting his eyelashes like he knows (and Kasamatsu’s being paranoid, maybe, but it never hurts; it’s worse if he knows and pities and plays with Kasamatsu like a cat playing with a sparrow). He’s always making a nuisance of himself, focusing even the parts of Kasamatsu’s attention that wouldn’t ever go to him onto him, grabbing the spotlight. He’s the ace and Kasamatsu’s the captain, the point guard responsible for getting him the ball and clearing his lanes. All of that’s just making everything worse, biting at Kasamatsu’s feelings like raw thighs chafing again in the summer.   
  
It’s a problem because some part of Kasamatsu breathes easier when he deserts the team, skips out on events for his modeling gigs or leaves everyone behind at a tournament to go talk to Midorima or one of his other middle school friends (and he talks about that fucking middle school so much, like it’s the greatest thing that could ever happen to him—though maybe it had been if that’s how he’d gotten into basketball—until Kasamatsu reminds him that, hey, he’s on a different fucking team right now).   
  
And still, Kasamatsu can’t help but stare at him, the hoop-breaking dunks, the high leaps into the air, the smoothness of his dribble like he was born to play basketball, like he’d been doing it his entire life (smoother than Kasamatsu, who practically has) instead of just a couple of years, the beautiful eyes and flirtatious smile. This will pass, maybe before Kasamatsu graduates. (It had fucking better.)


	98. kikasa, apple peeling

They need to stop wasting time when they have so little, when they’re so close to the end of the rope, when Kise’s going pro and Kasamatsu’s studies are only going to get more intense, when they’ll be physically split up and all signs point to an actual breakup (Kise doesn’t want that, but he doesn’t want it to die a painful death, carried like a living person between them as it rots them both away from its own obvious decay; the two of them aren’t likely to ignore it like that but distance makes people do some crazy things).  
  
Kise’s going overseas; Kasamatsu’s staying put; Kise will go farther and Kasamatsu will still be here, living his own life, traveling his own trajectory, until they’re so far apart it’s impossible to bring them back around. They’re like two straight lines, intersecting, in each other’s line of sight for a bit and then going farther away, into the distance, beyond the horizon. Maybe that’s a grim and hopeless way of looking at things; maybe they can make it through. Kise wants to, wants to, but.  
  
It’s hard to think about the future; it’s hard to think about it as different from now but still good. It’s pretty good now, basketball together in the park, Kise pretending to go to cram school but skipping out (he’s not going to college anyway) and staying back at Kasamatsu’s apartment, coaxing him back into bed, pressing kisses to his neck and shoulders until he blushes like it’s their first date all over again and they’re both younger, less sure, less fully formed. But everything Kise does is intentional now, not just most things; they know each other’s bodies like worn-in sneakers, molded to each other (not tired of it, never tired of the way they’ve learned to make things fit).   
  
But time is still short, shortening, peeling away like the skin of an apple that Kasamatsu scrapes off with a knife over the garbage can, sweat on his neck and teeth on his lip, Kise watching and waiting for the smallest apple slice pressed into his own waiting mouth.  
  
“Cut your own next time,” says Kasamatsu.  
  
And then he feeds Kise another, contradicting himself, letting Kise lick the tang and sweetness from his fingertips before he pulls away, stretching out their time, dilating it just a little longer, overused elastic with just a bit more give left.


	99. kikasa, like a dream

It’s like a dream, waking up in the morning, vision blurry with sleep, Kasamatsu snoring next to him, Kise’s tank top falling from his shoulder (the one Kise had had to convince him to borrow but Kasamatsu had said was some kind of cheesy shit because it wouldn’t fit him and here he is, wearing it, snuggled down into Kise’s blankets). It’s like he’s woken up from something he can’t remember, fuzzily pleasant but kind of suspenseful and weird, broken through to the next layer of dreaming, a little bit lucid but he still can't do everything he wants.  
  
Right now he’d like to levitate; he thinks about it but his body’s still anchored to the bed, to Kasamatsu, to the sun slanting through the shades from where it shines off the window across the way, another dorm room and another student. Kise shifts, huffing, against Kasamatsu; Kasamatsu’s out like last season’s couture, deeply in his own next layer of the dream (or maybe he’s just Kise’s dreamed-up version and Kise’s mind is acting too shallow to conjure him up in more dimensions than this).  
  
“Senpai," Kise whispers, and Kasamatsu snorts, wiggling his shoulder.  
  
It’s cute; Kise smiles, kissing the back of his ear. Kasamatsu ought to get some sleep; they both ought to get some more (they get so little as it is, with so much work). Kise sighs, closing his eyes, and then the alarm blares loudly through the room, from Kasamatsu’s phone on the other side (the dorm room is tiny but not so tiny that Kasamatsu doesn’t need to go get up to get it). Kasamatsu groans, almost rolling out of bed, and Kise laughs.  
  
“Brat,” says Kasamatsu, his voice breaking and scratchy; he stumbles over toward his phone, plugged into the wall, and shuts off the alarm.   
  
Kise watches the muscles in his shoulders as he yawns and then turns. Kise remembers that his leg is aching, and his stomach growls, reminding him just how long it’s been since he last ate (modeling diet or no, he can’t live on nothing). This is too real to be a dream, too grounded and almost too boring but for Kasamatsu shuffling back over and crawling back into bed.  
  
“We got fifteen more minutes,” he says, flopping facedown into the pillow.  
  
Kise laughs, quiet; his leg is cramping and he pushes at the muscle (he’s got another PT session later; he’s not looking forward to it). It would be nice to forget all of this all over again—and maybe, for fifteen minutes, he can pretend it’s a dream still.


	100. nijihaihimu, fluff

It’s probably too soon for Tatsuya and Shougo to let go and say this is good, if there’s ever a time that’s not too soon for them to drop their guards completely. But Shuuzou will say it loud enough for all of them, think it loud enough so that it echoes around their bedroom hear and reaches Tatsuya and Shougo, their subconsciouses from where they’re sleeping.   
  
Shuuzou ends up in the middle; he’s always the first one out and sometimes he’ll wake up to find Tatsuya’s arm slipped around him or head on his shoulder, Shougo sprawled out halfway across him and drooling on his chest. When they’re asleep, their guards are let down a little more; they’re looser like the way they are on the court, pure and clear and free and in love with basketball (Shougo pretends not to be, but really).   
  
This is the happiness Tatsuya and Shougo have been mortgaging since forever, since before Shuuzou even met either of them, that they’ve more than earned back (if happiness can be earned; they’ve done some shitty things but that doesn’t mean they don’t deserve to be happy, that the weight shouldn’t roll off them at some point; Shuuzou’s done some shitty things, too, but feeling guilty long after the fact won’t solve shit and feeling awful is no such penance). This is the happiness they could physically buy now that they’re pro basketball players, the happiness that they’re still skeptical of.   
  
This is the kind of thing that makes Shuuzou’s lip curl up, smiling at both of them until Tatsuya looks away with rosy cheeks even though they’ve spent the whole day inside in the air conditioning, that makes Shougo yell at one of them about something (and oh, when he and Tatsuya gang up on Shougo like that, when Tatsuya gives so freely the happiness he can’t take for himself, when he coos over the grey roots of Shougo’s hair, growing out fast in the heat). There’s room in his arms for both of them, Shougo squirming and saying it’s too hot, Tatsuya letting out his breath quietly like a leaky air mattress, for him to kiss both of them on the top of their heads and ask what they’ll make for dinner.   
  
The three of them bump elbows over the stove, but Shuuzou catches Shougo smiling softly at Tatsuya in the light and his heart constricts and the summer feels infinite, endless, a song on 24-hour loop, the ending fading into the beginning all over again until he forgets where he is.


	101. garciraki, city lights

It’s a risk to say it; it’s a risk not to say it. It’s a risk either way when there’s still a month between the two of them now and the next time Alex is coming to Akita, a trip already planned that she can’t move this close (that she wishes would be tomorrow, that she’d wake up and be on the plane, landing already). It’s a risk to wait, if Masako feels the same and lets go; it’s a risk to say anything now when the only way they can talk is over the phone. But relationships are all about risk, diving off the cliff now and reaching for each other’s hands on the way down, maybe getting a good enough grasp to slow the fall or hit the ground just as hard but together.  
  
It’s been building, the fluttering in her stomach, the twitch of her hand, the hope that bubbles up like carbon in a fresh bottle of seltzer whenever her phone buzzes, the disappointment when it’s another CVS coupon email or a weather alert or something other than a new alert from Masako, Instagram or LINE or email, even if it’s just a like or a quick message, the thought that halfway around the world Masako’s thinking about Alex, too, that maybe, hopefully, she gets the same rush when Alex sends something back, bytes in a radio wave beamed up to a satellite. It’s not as big and crashing as it was, but it’s not subsiding, either; it goes into a lull and then comes back, pushing at Alex’s insides, warm sand on the beach even after the sun’s covered up by a cloud. This is a risk she wants to take, even from right where she is as these feelings cushion how she’s falling for Masako.  
  
There’s no waiting for the right time to present itself; there’s no right time like the present. There’s no way holding out another month will do either of them any good.  
  
Masako’s voice is always pleasant, even when it’s a little hoarse from shouting at her players all afternoon, when maybe Alex shouldn’t make her talk.  
  
“I was thinking,” Alex says.   
  
“About?” says Masako, and Alex tries not to read anticipation into her tone.  
  
“I want to go out with you,” says Alex. “Will you go out with me?”  
  
There’s just Masako’s breathing, the sound of the city in Alex’s background.  
  
“Yeah,” says Masako. “I want to go out with you, too.”  
  
There’s a hint of a smile in her voice; Alex can picture it clearly when she closes her eyes, Masako’s hair framing her face, her fingers on the edges of her pale green phone case.


	102. kikasa, pining

Kise’s never noticed Kasamatsu pining, but maybe that’s a good thing. Kasamatsu’s not the kind of guy to have sick fantasies about trying to push back his feelings but letting them bleed over just enough, passive-aggressively telling Kise to go for it and hoping he will (if he’d wanted this to go somewhere, he’d say something; he’d force the issue; even though he’s no good at flirting he knows how to be direct).   
  
Kise's never noticed; he probably never will. He’s used to noticing, even the more subtle of his fangirls, quietly waiting off to the side and watching him, twirling their hair on their fingers when they talk to him (and watching that Kasamatsu feels the bite of jealousy sinking in its teeth, all over his body; they’re never going to get anywhere with him but talking to him, making him see them, even for half a second, as a potential object of Kise’s affections—but Kasamatsu doesn’t want scraps; he doesn’t want pity; he doesn’t want a moment).   
  
There’s no point in letting him know, even if there’s actually a hope in the darkness, something to bring the two of them closer together. It’s a bad fucking idea, to say the least, captain and ace, the two of them on the team together—the strain of the team, the strain it would put on their relationship, the strain their relationship would put on the team. Already Kasamatsu’s had to watch himself extra carefully, keep telling himself to pay attention to the other players in practice, the ones who need his help more (not that Kise doesn’t, especially with being less self-centered and more of a team player, but even so) and not get caught up in Kise’s smile as he shoots, the sound of his voice as he blatantly disregards orders (and he’s a little bit like Moriyama in that way, only Kasamatsu’s never had a stupid pining crush on Moriyama so it’s not like that at all).  
  
As captain, it’s Kasamatsu’s responsibility not to drop this on Kise, not to burden the ace further with feelings he shouldn’t have to handle. As captain, he needs to deal with his own shit, not share it with other people even if it kind of concerns them. This isn’t love; it’s just a passing fancy, just an interest in someone gone a little too far. Kise will never know, and he never should.


	103. haihimu, prison break

They skip the pleasantries; Haizaki’s been here long enough that it’s actually sort of refreshing not to be asked what he’s in for, for the new inmate (he’d be pretty if it weren’t for the dead eye) to size him up, his gaze flickering cool, to look at him like he’ll do for something. Haizaki’s not used to taking orders, to being arbitrarily chosen, but it means, at first, exactly what he thinks it does. Sex on the bottom bunk of a cell, in the back of the library just out of the way of the cameras (slick hand jobs under the table when they can), like this—Haizaki’s used to having it casual, once in a while; he’s used to using it for power, for fear. He’s not used to having it as an end for itself, the way Himuro seems to.   
  
“What the fuck do you want?” Haizaki says after the tenth or eleventh time (he’s lost count), Himuro lying on top of him, coming down sweaty, face half-hidden in the shadow.   
  
“You,” says Himuro, as if that’s simple, as if Haizaki is something to want. “What do you want?”  
  
Haizaki wants Himuro, sure, pretty lips and voice sweet like he hasn’t tasted since he got in here. But this is transient; no matter what Himuro did he’ll get out here sooner than Haizaki; he can’t have a pile of minor crimes that reduce to little security but a lot of time.   
  
“I want to get out of here,” Haizaki says.  
  
Himuro’s hands are smooth in his. “I can do that.”  
  
Haizaki wonders how many people he’s made sweet promises to like that, if in the real world his hair covered his face like the shadows and he looked so asymmetrically pretty, if he made a promise to the wrong person and that’s how he got in.   
  
“How you plan to do that?”  
  
“I don’t,” says Himuro. “But I’ll figure it out.”  
  
Haizaki snorts; there’s no reward for honesty here but it’s cute from Himuro, the smile that plays around his mouth before Haizaki leans in to kiss him; if this is a ploy to get more of this then Himuro’s won already. But Haizaki’s got nothing to lose from another kiss, no good behavior bridges to burn if Himuro talks too loudly about what Haizaki wants. So Haizaki squeezes Himuro’s ass, cups his hips in his hands, kisses the stubble on his cheek and the lobe of his unpierced ear.


	104. nijikagahimu, fluff

This shouldn’t be as good as it is, but Taiga’s not going to dissect it too closely. Just because all the factors don’t add up doesn’t mean they don’t deserve it, doesn’t mean they won’t work out in the long term. Just because they went from a drunk summer three-way to casual regular sex to something while they were scattered across the country to the something else they’ve been ever since the summer after doesn’t mean they’ll dissipate the same way they came together. They don’t need to be together all the time, although Taiga wouldn’t mind it if they were.   
  
He doesn’t mind the long weekends in the summer, the saved-up off time Shuu takes from his job, the streetball tournaments he enters late at night that Taiga and Tatsuya watch from the bleachers, Taiga’s arm around Tatsuya’s waist under his hoodie, warm skin and real smile. He doesn’t mind the lazy mornings when none of them have anywhere to be, when training regimens are looser and they can make pancakes and eggs and bacon, put extra cream in their coffee, slide into day-drinking and sitting on the back porch, slapping mosquitoes from each other’s arms, Tatsuya falling asleep on top of Shuu and Shuu’s hand finding Taiga’s, locking their fingers together as Shuu kisses a shape on Taiga’s bare shoulder.   
  
They all play on the street court, swapping teams, usually Shuu and Tatsuya playing to Tatsuya’s passing strengths, all three of them stuck under the hoop and Taiga out-rebounding the both of them because he’s got the wingspan to do it. He always buys them all ice cream afterwards; Shuu leans over to lick Taiga’s no matter what flavor he gets and Taiga always watches the pale pastel slick of ice cream on his tongue; he knows Tatsuya’s face is curling into a wicked grin next to him (and Tatsuya sometimes takes a lick, too, to outdo him, or offers Taiga his own ice cream, scolding Shuu for being greedy and then Shuu reaches over and pinches him and someone almost gets ice cream in their face).   
  
This should be as good as it is; this is as good as it is because of the three of them, the work they put in, the warmth they pass like a basketball between them, well-practiced, soft hands. This is everything it should be and more; it is everything it is, in totality, and Taiga’s never been so glad.


	105. nijihimu, not going anywhere

Some of these nights Tatsuya pretends to be drunk enough to kiss Shuuzou like it’s a game, like he’s sloppy and he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s too careful for that; Shuuzou’s seen him really drunk, once (and Tatsuya can’t have forgotten that, but this is just a thinly-veiled excuse that Shuuzou won’t call him on), when he was close to blacking out and he’d clung to Shuuzou and buried his face in Shuuzou’s chest and looked like he was going to puke but hadn’t until he’d woken up with a hangover. This isn’t that; he still keeps his distance; he’s ready to get physical with Shuuzou but nothing else; his emotions are still locked away.  
  
Shuuzou doesn’t want one without the other. Shuuzou would rather Tatsuya think of him in a strictly platonic way (though maybe he’s just making that exchange in his head because he knows it’s never going to happen) if it meant Tatsuya would let him in, let off some of the emotional burden that keeps him so constrained, taut on a live wire, shut away. He’d rather have all of it, the key to making Tatsuya happy, sober kisses and touches that Tatsuya feels comfortable giving and receiving, both of them out of trouble. It’s something Shuuzou knows his father might forgive him for but something he can’t tell him right now all the same, something he’s got to do to stop Tatsuya from getting in deeper.  
  
Tatsuya makes the motions of advancing to fight sometimes, pretending to stagger on his feet but all of a sudden his eye going cold, his fist going hard at his side at some comment; Shuuzou tightens his arm around Tatsuya’s shoulders and Tatsuya looks up at him, defensive like Shuuzou’s just tried to drive past him on the court. It makes the aggression pass, a little, most of the time; it makes the aggressor move on and Tatsuya’s fists uncurl into his pockets.   
  
“Why are you still here?” Tatsuya asks him one night, when he’s maybe a little bit actually tipsy, maybe a little bit desperate.  
  
“I’m here because I want to be with you,” Shuuzou says.  
  
He reaches for Tatsuya’s hand; Tatsuya doesn’t pull it away fast enough, as if enough of him wants to let Shuuzou reel him in. He frowns; he waits for Shuuzou to drop his hand. Shuuzou squeezes it instead.  
  
“I’m not as good as you think I am,” Tatsuya says. “I don’t want to keep waiting for you to see it and.”  
  
His voice breaks; he swallows; Shuuzou takes his other hand. They’re in the darkness of a side street; there’s no traffic. It’s calm and quiet; the nearest streetlight is just close enough to play shadow patterns on Tatsuya’s face. He could be the devil himself and Shuuzou would still want him to be happy, want to free him of his weights.   
  
“I’m not going anywhere,” says Shuuzou. “I want you to see that.”


	106. midohimu, religion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> demons, priests, cannibalism(?) etc

The demon demands his sacrifice once a year, his feast once forgotten but he gives awfully convincing reminders, whispered in Midorima’s ear at the back of the service, under the sound of the organ, the rustles in the rosary beads. He wants; he’s hungry; he needs or he will take, indiscriminate, from the faithful already starving for the words of God. Midorima’s a hypocrite, giving to a false idol like this, even as he preaches, the Latin words falling from his lips in front of people who barely grasp the literal meaning, hearing their confessions and forgiving them as an agent of a God he turns away from.  
  
He presses the cross to his lips, praying that these actions do not lead the lambs astray before he offers them up for slaughter to his demon.  
  
(He supposes that Tatsuya is not his demon; he is no possession of Midorima’s anymore than he belongs to anyone else; Midorima is the vessel he chooses to speak to, the opposite of a God, like the proverbial devil on Midorima’s shoulder but he’s draped all over, arms across Midorima’s back, tongue at Midorima’s ears.)  
  
Midorima lays them on the altar, whispering words begging for forgiveness that he should not be given; he’s going straight to hell when his time in this life is up, down to whichever part goes to traitors, false men of God, those who cannot resist temptation, who will sacrifice one to stave off a threat to many, one a year and whatever still remains of his own soul, if there is anything that has not been burnt to a crisp already.  
  
“You’re late,” he says, when he feels the cold like ice sweeping in, when he hears the shatter of a stained glass window (more than the tithe will give them for, more wanton destruction, a show of power).  
  
“Forgive me,” says Tatsuya, materializing, fangs bared, the same pale as his skin. “I didn’t know we were on schedule.”  
  
Midorima lets out the tiniest of huffs and Tatsuya sinks his fingers into the front of Midorima’s robes, pulling him forward into a kiss, meaty and breathtaking, until Midorima’s gasping, the taste and scent and sight of blood overwhelming him, his fingers all of a sudden sticky underneath the tape.   
  
“The blood is on your hands,” Tatsuya says before he sinks his teeth into his victim, her scream swallowed before it can even begin, the blood spurting out of her chest and onto Midorima’s face, dotting his clothes, streaking his hands with the bright red stigma, the cross he deserves to bear.


	107. nijikagahimu, titanic au

“I’m cold blooded,” Tatsuya says, and they should know better than to believe him.  
  
Shuuzou had mentioned something about a cold lake he’d dove into, almost drowning; Taiga wonders if it’s too morbid, too close to tempting fate to think about it when they’re floating in a sea filled with dead bodies. Taiga had suggested they could take turns on the door, two and one; Tatsuya had said the whole thing would probably capsize and it wasn’t worth the risk. Shuuzou had looked at him, as if he was deciding something, and Tatsuya had looked back.  
  
Shuuzou still looks like he’s praying for something, like some kind of bird that’s going to swoop out of the sky and save them, like a lifeboats going to come trawling through just to look for any stragglers, warm blankets and enough room for three boys. Fat fucking chance.  
  
Taiga’s known Tatsuya long enough to know when he's lying; he knows when Tatsuya fakes things; he knows when Tatsuya’s lips are turning blue. Tatsuya’s still smiling, soft like he’s in pain.  
  
“Shuu,” he says.  
  
Shuuzou’s eyes snap open; he tries not to move and rock the door; he holds Taiga closer and Taiga can feel his breath, too cold but still warmer than the frigid air, than the water lapping at them.  
  
“Take care of Taiga,” he says.  
  
And then he lets go; Taiga screams and Shuuzou holds him; he can’t move and he can feel the air of his breath, raw in his throat, ripping from him and rocking the door but he can’t stop it; he can’t stop the energy that’s somehow poured into him from somewhere. He screams and screams until he feels like he’s about to pass out, until he thinks he might join Taiga, until he hears a splashing in the distance.  
  
“Hey! Hold on; we’ll get you!”  
  
It’s Shuuzou’s rescuers, too little too late, a crew of entirely unfamiliar people in a lifeboat that makes Taiga sick to his stomach (if he had anything left in there) just to see. Here he is, ripped finery; here’s Shuuzou in a borrowed suit; here they are without Tatsuya. It’s like a cruel dream, and maybe they’ll wake up in the ship, his and Tatsuya’s room in first class, Shuuzou lying between them. Maybe they’ll wake up to all wash under the waves, three sets of hands joined in a ring. It should have been Taiga in the water; there’s more of him; he could have pushed himself (he was always better than that at Tatsuya). Somehow, Shuuzou pushes them both onto the boat; Taiga clings to him; he wasn’t supposed to let go of Tatsuya and he’s damn well never going to let go of Shuuzou now.   
  
“You’re okay,” Shuuzou whispers into his hair, and it’s a lie Taiga can’t even pretend to believe.


	108. aomido, training camp

“This isn’t constructive to our teams,” says Midorima, huffing and adjusting his glasses.  
  
Aomine shrugs. “You’re still doing it.”  
  
It’s true; Midorima is taking on Aomine one-on-one despite how useless it is in the middle of joint training camp; Aomine favors dunks and short twos far too much; he’s too small to block Midorima’s threes—he can try to box him out but Midorima’s been working more and more on his range, even if it’s not particularly practical to make a shot from the opposite free-throw line in an actual match. This had all started with an argument between their two captains and had ended up like this, something that could perhaps be avoided, something that really is pointless for asserting Shutoku’s superiority as a team over Touou.   
  
“So you forfeit?” says Aomine.  
  
“You’re kidding,” says Midorima.  
  
-  
  
“Don’t be mad because you lost,” says Aomine, dropping his arm around Midorima’s shoulders.  
  
It feels better than it should in the dark, even with the growing difference between their heights (Midorima’s given up on settling into a particular height; he’s too tall already for staying the same height to give him much of an advantage in terms of taking up space and not having to duck under doors and the taller he gets the better it is for his basketball, the better it is for his wingspan, his shots and blocks and rebounds and reaching for an errant pass).   
  
“Come on,” says Aomine, leaning up to kiss Midorima on the cheek with a wet smack. “It’s cute when you sulk, but not that cute.”  
  
“I’m not sulking,” says Midorima.  
  
“Uh-huh,” says Aomine.   
  
He’s grinning when Midorima looks over. The sound of crickets is loud in the distance; the forest rustles in the wind. They could go deeper in, but they’d get lost; it would be farther away from noisy captains and nosy teammates (Takao, with his eyesight, can probably see them from wherever he is). And today’s lucky item for Cancers, procured from the local convenience store, is a flashlight.   
  
“Let’s go,” says Aomine, his fingers brushing Midorima’s knuckles, and okay. It might not be actively terrible in there.   
  
“If I get bitten by a tick—”  
  
“I’ll protect you, Baby,” says Aomine. “You don’t need to worry.”  
  
Midorima raises an eyebrow, but Aomine’s face is earnest enough (more than enough). They’re not that far from the cabins, but Midorima leans down to kiss Aomine, the flashlight pressed between their hands.


	109. imahana, headmaster ritual

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bullying/abuse/sexual references

They all get kicked around here, but that can’t happen to Hanamiya. His mother went here; both of his grandparents did—something that easily gets flicked away like the end of a cigarette by an upperclassman on the first day. All four of his grandparents, both of his parents, two older siblings and a younger one in Hanamiya’s year (who somehow seems to escape the bloody lips and soiled clothes that plague the rest of the first year students; Hanamiya fantasizes through classes about getting revenge on that one, hiding his pants after phys ed or having Yamazaki tie his shoelaces together). He snaps his fingers and tells Hanamiya to iron his tie; Hanamiya leaves it over the ironing board.  
  
Five of them corner him to spank him, ripping his new school pants by the seat and leaving him to explain to the teachers and the disciplinary committee exactly what had happened. Hanamiya’s no idiot; he knows when not to tell; he knows these fucking coward teachers are going to look the other way, that these disciplinarian students had it happen to them in their year and let the cycle continue. Hanamiya sits on his ass where it hurts and pretends it doesn’t; he won’t let them win. He watches the older boys circle like vultures above him and ignores them.  
  
That works better than pretending to be a goody-two-shoes; there are easier targets if Hanamiya plays a little dirty, not so dirty that they need to keep him in line but enough that he’s too much trouble. They’d rather play with squirmy little mice, half-picked roadkill, fight with someone who has the same open talons as they do.   
  
Imayoshi’s different, or he pretends to be. He’s a creepy piece of shit, always watching Hanamiya out of the corner of those closed eyes, making sure Hanamiya knows he’s looking. Hanamiya never shudders; that’s probably what that asshole wants him to do. He holds his head high, grabs his bag, and sweeps out of sight of the seniors who always want to slap his ass.  
  
He meets Imayoshi in the locker room, as if Imayoshi’s been waiting, after Hanamiya’s mouth’s been made bloody again, his pants are pulled down to his knees and his knuckles are scraped. Imayoshi looks him up and down but makes no sort of disparaging remark. He gets on his knees and looks up, and Hanamiya can almost see whites and irises between the lashes and lids.   
  
“They’ve been mean to ya. I reckon you wouldn’t mind if I sucked you off?”  
  
(When he puts it like that, maybe Hanamiya doesn’t mind how fucking creepy he is, just for now.)


	110. sad ogiwara

They are monsters; Ogiwara’s heard it all before. He’d heard it when they’d clobbered teams who’d edged out a victory over Meikou, when he’d seen the despair in their eyes. He’d thought they had to be weak, too pessimistic, that if someone took a crack at it, if they had kept going—it had been so stupid; it had been so fucking stupid but he’d lasted the whole game on vain hope, turned at the last second to blind hope. It would have been less cruel to believe it less of a lie, that those five ones weren’t the goal the whole time, that every possession hadn’t been playing into that point guard’s mismatched eyes, glowing like something eerie, a ghost in the machine.   
  
They are worse than ghosts; they are worse than demons; they are a group of complete monsters, not enough humanity to let anyone else get an honest crack. Should they, though? If they’re that much better should they let anyone do anything? But why step on the court at all if none of this shit matters? Why do they do anything? How could Kuroko pretend it was something normal, that this was basketball, the basketball the two of them had shared, honest and straightforward and free?   
  
Maybe it was Kuroko the whole time. If those guys are his friends, the way he’s talked about them over the phone, the way he’s expressed his confidence in them, the fondness in his voice, the same fondness with which Ogiwara’s talked about Kuroko to Mochida. Was it all a lie? Maybe Kuroko’s the biggest monster of all; maybe he’s guilty enough to excuse himself from this game (he was hurt; was he hurt? Was that a lie too?) not to face Ogiwara. Maybe he’d known all alone. Maybe Ogiwara’s a monster, too; maybe it’s by transitivity, association. If he can be blind to such a monster’s faults, if he’s a sucker, isn’t it his fault?  
  
Mochida’s arm curls around him; the bus is still moving and Ogiwara doesn’t get motion sickness but he feels like puking anyway, like the metal walls are closing in around him. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter; how can Mochida stand the sight of him? Strong captain, friend (does he knows he’s friends with a monster, good, kind Mocchi?) and teammate and player, the only one among them who’d kept some semblance of sanity, tight-lipped, his arm glued to Ogiwara’s shoulder, holding him up. Ogiwara sobs, louder, loud enough to drown out his thoughts; it’s the most he can do. It’s the only thing he can do, he himself. No miracle monster is manipulating this part; no miracle monster would care enough.


	111. momoalex, brilliant disguise

What’s someone young and vibrant as Satsuki doing with someone like Alex? It’s not a question she likes to ask herself, maybe because of the way it reflects on her but mostly because of the way even asking reflects on Satsuki, like she doesn’t know what she’s doing. Satsuki’s young and vibrant; she’s got the world in her hands (Alex remembers feeling that way, well enough to recognize it in Satsuki’s eyes even without glasses, to feel it in her touch and hear it in her voice). Everything is within her reach, and instead of staring out at possibilities she’s pulling them all in; Satsuki knows exactly what she’s doing (and Alex, back then, really hadn’t; maybe that’s why the half-mess she is now, gathering what she can, appeals to Satsuki, not as a lesson but as someone who knows).  
  
Maybe Alex should stop thinking about why, stop overanalyzing. She’s never been one for that kind of thing; she’s never needed to dwell so much on reasons, something underlying something good. If it falls away, she can live in the moment, suspended in the air before gravity gets the better of her and pulls her back down and away. If she worries too much this will dissipate in her hands as she grabs at it, dry ice melting into air under her fingertips. And this won’t fall away if they focus on it, sustain it. And Alex wants to; she can build on her failures, Satsuki on her own (fail early, fail often, so they don’t know you fail at all by the time you rise up; it’s easier said than done).   
  
Her hair glows on the pillow, bright pink against bright white; it always feels redundant to say she’s gorgeous but Satsuki deserves to be told every second (almost as much as she deserves to be told her accomplishments, the things she knows about herself better than Alex does, the things she’s already proud of). Alex wants to steal some of that glow for herself, wrap herself in all of Satsuki’s glow when she pulls Satsuki in for a kiss, steal it when she steals her breath. But that’s impossible; Satsuki glows too much; Satsuki’s too smart to let Alex take it. She’s too much but enough all at once, the way she looks at Alex sometimes like Alex is the one who amazes her (and, well, Alex would like to think she’s pretty cool—but still).


	112. hyuukasa, idiot

Hyuuga feels a little bit weird when Kasamatsu doesn’t show up at the street court. It’s not like he’d broken a promise, it’s just that both of them have been coming pretty regularly; maybe it’s not a written or spoken deal but it feels like one of those unwritten rules of sport, a courtesy. It hurts, like Hyuuga had thought he was a little bit more important to Kasamatsu than Kasamatsu is to him. It’s a burn, a sting, a bad shave. It’s a little bit empty, like a water bottle buried deep in his bag and he pulls it out to find nothing inside, just taking up space. (Yeah, okay, if he wasn’t coming he wouldn’t have a way of telling Kasamatsu; he doesn’t have his number and he’s not asking Kuroko to ask Kise for it—that would just be too much, too soon. Too soon for what, Hyuuga doesn’t know, but for whatever.)  
  
That kind of feeling keeps showing up, even when Kasamatsu comes back, all of a sudden, making a drive against him, the way he pops up defensively, the look on his face when they’re scoping out opponents for a two-on-two, tanned skin of his stomach (where’s he been going around shirtless?) when he lifts his shirt to wipe the sweat off, the way his eyes follow Hyuuga’s to that space on him, like he knows something Hyuuga doesn’t, like the weird feeling is visible, just not to Hyuuga. (Maybe Kasamatsu feels it, too; maybe he wants to keep showing up.)  
  
“Hey,” Kasamatsu says.   
  
The ball sits between them, slightly deflated, too much to play with anymore.  
  
“Yeah?” says Hyuuga.  
  
“Do you like me?” says Kasamatsu.  
  
“Yeah,” says Hyuuga. “Why would I play with you if I didn’t?”  
  
“No,” says Kasamatsu, his cheeks coloring a little bit redder. “Do you like me, like want to go out with me?”  
  
“What? No, I,” says Hyuuga, and then he shuts his mouth.  
  
He doesn’t; the sentence should be easy to complete (“I like girls; I like Riko” except he doesn’t like Riko, okay? And—he does like girls; he’s just). Kasamatsu looks like he’s waiting, and then after a few seconds like he’s not anymore. He holds out his hand and grabs Hyuuga’s; it’s not like a girls, small but hard and rough, nails stubby and split against his skin.   
  
“Idiot,” says Kasamatsu.   
  
He doesn’t let go, and Hyuuga doesn’t take his hand back.


	113. nijiaohimu, tree!tatsuya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (incl nijiao, nijihimu)

Daiki doesn’t see him at first, as if he’d come in all of a sudden, a striking person in the hotel lobby, dark hair and curled lip and sparks in his eyes.  
  
“Hey,” says Daiki.  
  
“Hey,” says the other person; his voice is rough and captivating, like a sharp wind through the forest.  
  
Maybe Daiki’s supposed to be there for business purposes only, but that doesn’t mean he can’t invite a gorgeous stranger back to his room for some fun. The thought crosses his mind that the man—Shuuzou, he says—might have no room of his own, anywhere to stay; he might just be a cheap leech. But if Shuuzou’s using him for that, it’s a worthy price to pay for how good he feels, the sweet sound of his voice as he groans, the taste of his tongue, something earthy in Daiki’s mouth. He wants already; he wants more.  
  
“Stay,” he whispers, after they’ve cleaned up and Shuuzou seems to be preparing to leave.   
  
“I can’t,” says Shuuzou. “But thank you for this.”  
  
If it’s not for the room, if he’s not in this hotel, then what is it for? Daiki falls asleep before he reaches anything like a conclusion.   
  
In the morning he’s drinking coffee in the hotel restaurant, thinking about Shuuzou still. At the next table, they’re talking about local ghosts, spirits, forest creatures. That’s silly; Daiki’s spent so much time outdoors already and he’s never seen one; they’re just legends, myths, things that don’t exist no matter how fun it is to believe in them.   
  
Shuuzou smells like fresh flowers when he comes by that night, and Daiki has to ask.  
  
“Are you a spirit?”  
  
Shuuzou grins that cute crooked grin of his. “You could say that. I prefer the term ‘ghost’, though.”  
  
“Ghost," says Daiki. “But you’re solid.”  
  
“I belong to a tree spirit. It’s part of my contract.”  
  
“Oh,” says Daiki. “Is not staying in the contract, too?”  
  
Shuuzou nods. “It’s okay. He’s good to me. I protect him; he gives me a body; that kind of thing.”  
  
Daiki looks at Shuuzou in the light, dim this far from the open bathroom door. He looks so solid; he is so solid; his body’s too flawed in the right ways to be unreal.  
  
“Take me to him,” says Daiki.  
  
(It’s an impulse; what’s he going to do if he buys Shuuzou’s contract? He can’t own a person, ghost or no; he can’t give Shuuzou a body. He barely knows him, even if he likes what he’s seen so far; that’s just two nights and barely a scratch on the surface. But if he can trade something—don’t make deals with spirits, a voice in his head that sounds like Satsuki’s says—to get Shuuzou for a whole night, then. Maybe it’ll be worth it.)  
  
The tree spirit is beautiful, wooden lips shapely, boughs and leaves covering half his face, one knot-eye peering through, piercing Daiki all the way to the other side.  
  
“You want him.”  
  
Yeah, Daiki does, but he wants the tree spirit, too, those long branches, the honey-sweet smell of bark, the rough skin of his roots, that face, as if carved from the trunk.  
  
“I see,” says the tree spirit, voice almost laughing.  
  
He reaches out a branch, twigs touching at Daiki’s face, brushing over his skin, a light scratching. Daiki looks over to Shuuzou, and Shuuzou looks like he’s starting to smile. Maybe they can all share; maybe they can all be like this.  
  
“Please,” says the tree. “Stay with us tonight.”  
  
It’s an invitation Daiki wouldn’t ever refuse.


	114. rakuzan ot5, brilliant animals

They are like brilliant animals. That’s probably an exaggeration, perhaps a little bit unfair, but their very existence as monsters on the basketball court is unfair to people like Mayuzumi, average, just trying to make their way in basketball (perhaps Mayuzumi’s not average, but he’s average for a Rakuzan player, which is to say exceptional but still so far behind the four of them). They’re so good they make players like him look like shit; they’re so good they make players like him get barely more than garbage time.  
  
But basketball’s not the be-all and end-all, and even if he’s cracking the starting five (and that’s the only reason they’d noticed him in the first place) it’s not all that matters even to guys like them who should have to live on eating hoops they’re so good. They wouldn’t want anyone else with them; there’s no gold standard basketball player they’d swap him out for (well, next year they might end up replacing him; they’re so much and even among each other there’s only so much shit they can put up with, only so far they can hold each other up).   
  
“Mayu-san, I’m bored,” says Hayama, snuggling closer under Mayuzumi’s arm.  
  
“It’s too hot,” says Mayuzumi, shifting his weight (it’s not like Hayama’s going to listen) to accommodate both Hayama and the book in his hand.   
  
“Stop pretending your book’s more interesting than me,” says Hayama.  
  
Mayuzumi curls his lip; Akashi and Mibuchi read all the time and Hayama doesn’t give them as much shit for that. He’s older; Hayama ought to listen to him.   
  
“It’s pretty cute,” says Nebuya, sitting on Mayuzumi’s other side and starting to read over his shoulder.  
  
Mayuzumi’s not going to wait for him to finish the page, but Nebuya doesn’t seem all that bothered when he turns it (better that he’s not making a big deal, Mayuzumi supposes). Anyway, who does Nebuya think he’s calling cute? Maybe it’s not worth bringing this up for the fiftieth time, but it’s no less annoying after all of these iterations.   
  
“Aww,” Mibuchi coos. “Sei-chan, get the camera.”  
  
Akashi’s already on it, fucking traitor that he is, snapping a picture (probably two or three) with his cell phone before Mayuzumi can cover his face with the book.  
  
“We’ll know it’s you, anyway,” says Mibuchi, and why does he have to sound so goddamn smug about it?


	115. murakagahimu, marvel

The three of them fit together, somehow. It’s not like some kind of marvel or miracle; Taiga’s always known how to fit with Tatsuya on instinct alone, out of muscle memory (he can barely remember a time before Tatsuya, but he can’t remember a time when they hadn’t fallen into step beside each other so easily after they’d met at all). Tatsuya’s good with people; Atsushi’s difficult but Tatsuya’s good with him still, pulling him into the things he loudly protests (but maybe it’s not that Atsushi’s difficult; he just keeps up appearances and if you push him the right way he’ll do something with a little less complaint; the more Taiga gets to know him the more true this seems).  
  
Taiga and Atsushi, though, still have bumps and breaks, still times when it’s like they’re sixteen and fighting over Tatsuya (and Tatsuya’s a big-time enabler; he likes the attention even if he’s good at deflecting, but even though they both know he does they can’t stop themselves; Tatsuya rarely indulges himself and this is one way they can indulge him and make him feel special, even if it’s stupid and a little petty and they’re all supposed to be sharing). They aren’t as easily-molded to the situation as Tatsuya, who can make things seem instantaneously as if things were always going to trend this way (not that they always had been; he still reminds Taiga of the things they’d shared alone; he does the same with Atsushi and he leaves the two of them to their own devices often enough).   
  
But they fit together, even if it’s not perfect. Even if they made an even number it wouldn’t be, but it wouldn’t be the same kind of good. They wouldn’t be able to make a cake this fast, passing batter and icing back and forth, Taiga ending up with most of the cleanup (but he doesn’t mind, not when the reward is watching Atsushi’s hands cover Tatsuya’s, twice their size, and a mostly-clean kitchen until they finish the cake). Tatsuya lets Atsushi lick the spoon from the cake batter (raw eggs are bad; Atsushi always looks at Taiga like he’s scum after he says that, even if it’s true) and gives him one of the blades from the electric mixer after they prepare the frosting, the other to Taiga.  
  
Taiga gives half of his over to Tatsuya; it’s a little too sweet and rich for him and Tatsuya made it, too. Tatsuya always smiles him, kisses him softly before tonguing the blade; by that point Atsushi’s finished and he kisses Taiga, sticky fingers in Taiga’s hair, licking the frosting from his mouth. Yeah, they fit.


	116. midohimu, grace

Himuro is graceful on the court, still. Midorima hasn’t stopped appreciating that; even if things grow more bitter and sour between them, a rotten citrus fruit forgotten and left out on the table for a month, a year, two years, even if distance is not a balm on their wounds, and even if it leaves a knotted, mangled scar like those on the knees of Midorima’s oldest teammates, mortgaging extra minutes now against more surgery in the future, even if they bury all their weapons under frozen ground Midorima will never stop appreciating that. Graceful doesn’t get you points; picturesque isn’t worth more unless it’s the slam dunk contest (which isn’t real basketball anyway; it doesn’t count for anything).   
  
But there’s something to be said for the way the ball flies through the air off of Himuro’s fingers when there’s still a lot left on the shot clock, coming out of a snarl of outside traffic to fall in for two or three (he should take more threes; Midorima always tells him that and Himuro had always said it wasn’t worth the risk). It’s the kind of thing that television personalities say makes them want to watch basketball; perhaps the sport never would have taken off at all if not for aesthetics.   
  
And still, it makes Midorima’s heart constrict. He misses Himuro, his soft touch, the bite behind his words that even Midorima could here, the way it had clashed with his own sincerity in a comfortable way. He misses being with Himuro, the tentle nod of Himuro’s head, waiting for the train with shitty fast food Himuro had convinced Midorima that they should buy.   
  
But when Midorima had turned away, when Midorima had drawn back, hesitant like a spooked deer (like he shouldn’t be, but like he’s used to being anyway, the way hurt and uncertainty have made him that cannot be erased in a few years when things are good) Himuro had not followed him. He had waited; he had not crossed the divide. It’s not Himuro’s fault, per se; at least it’s Midorima’s fault just as much. They both need to be the ones who are chased, not the chaser, not when it’s like this (Himuro has no problem making the first move, but not with stakes this high, not with this much risk; he’s the bluffer and the waiter regardless of the chips on the table even if he’s the one to put a few more chips in).


	117. imawaka, you can keep me

  
Wakamatsu stands outside Imayoshi’s door, and this is the third day in a row. He coughs into his hand, sniffs at the cologne on his wrists. This is stupid; Imayoshi needs to study for college entrance exams. Even if Wakamatsu needs help (and, well, he does) there’s a limit to how mcuh Imayoshi should be giving him. He’s captain now; he’s had no problem jumping into the fire and figuring how not to get burned before.  
  
“Wakamatsu, what a surprise,” says Imayoshi, lips curling like barbecue smoke into a smile (his tone says the opposite of his words).  
  
“Imayoshi-san. Can I come in?”  
  
“Certainly. Thanks for spicing up my studying,” says Imayoshi. “I was just about to take a break.”  
  
“Oh, uh,” says Wakamatsu. “Sorry. I won’t keep you.”  
  
“You can keep me,” says Imayoshi, and oh, he does not mean it like that at all but Wakamatsu’s suddenly flushing bright hot in Imayoshi’s room where he’s got the window open; he wipes at his face with the sleeve of his turtleneck.  
  
“I just had a few more questions. About captaincy,” says Wakamatsu.  
  
Imayoshi still does not speak to him sharply about standing on his own feet; he’s acting a little bit like he knows what’s up, but that can’t be right. Not that Wakamatsu’s great at keeping things a secret (he’s not bad, but people like Imayoshi tend to read him pretty easily) but he’d managed not to blurt it out that he likes Imayoshi right in the middle of talking with him. And Imayoshi’s not doing anything, either to encourage or discourage him, as if he’s waiting for Wakamatsu to decide whether he wants to make a move or not. And the Imayoshi Wakamatsu knows is decisive, forthright; he’d say something either way and make it more awkward than it has to be.  
  
Either way, if he doesn’t know, then he deserves to; it’s not fair to either of them to keep playing at this game. Wakamatsu resolves that tomorrow he’s going to do it; he’s going to say it.  
  
He knocks harder on Imayoshi’s door, wishing he felt as brave as he’s supposed to be.  
  
“Wakamatsu, to what do I owe the pleasure? Do you want to talk more about captaincy?”  
  
Wakamatsu shakes his head. “Can I come in?”  
  
He doesn’t pull his sleeves down over his wrists, even though Imayoshi’s room is still fucking cold (Imayoshi doesn’t seem to mind).  
  
“I like you,” Wakamatsu says. “Will you go out with me?”  
  
It’s straightforward, without warning, but that’s the way Wakamatsu knows how to do things. Imayoshi tilts his head and smiles, softer than usual.  
  
“I thought you’d never ask.”  
  
Wait, what?  
  
“It was cute to watch you fumble, but I’m not going to want to be with someone who can’t get up the initiative,” says Imayoshi. “So thanks for proving me right.”  
  
Wakamatsu swallows. “Uh, you’re welcome?”  
  
It’s apparently the right enough thing to say, because Imayoshi grabs him by the top of his turtleneck and kisses him.


	118. murahimu, should have done more

They should have done more. They should have done something, at least; they could have had something. It would have been small; it probably would have torn itself apart within months, a comet that finally swings into orbit of a planet and falls, breaking in the atmosphere and flaming as it crumbles to pieces. They’d had time, nearly two years of high school, the two of them in Akita together, captain and ace for a year. The situation had been ripe, dangling from the branch, almost hanging too low to pluck.  
  
They’d been too stubborn to just take it, both of them; neither of them would reach out and push it, offer it even though they both could have taken it at once. They could have fucking had it; they could have been together. Tatsuya had wanted; even if he’d wanted other things and other people, too; he’d wanted Atsushi. He’d looked at Atsushi shirtless, those unbelievable muscles in his back, the grace of all that wingspan, miles long, a coastline full; he’d watched Atsushi roll up the sleeves of his uniform, expose those forearms, tie his hair up away from his face, and he’d said nothing, done nothing. He’d flirted with Atsushi a bit, openly; he’d ileaned in close so Atsushi could smell him, stolen a chip from his bag, spoken softer to him. Atsushi hadn’t taken the bait firmly enough, had looked at it and Tatsuya and done nothing.   
  
They cant’ do anything about that now; there’s an open future in front of them but some possibilities are closed; some doors have slammed and stuck and rusted over; some keys have fallen through the cracks. It’s nice to think about, fantasize about calling Atsushi up from across the country and talk to him about suburban grocery stores and the all-star game they might play against each other in and how things might be back in Akita (probably too cold; it’s true and it’s the answer they almost always arrive on). They talk, now; it’s not too carefully but there are subjects they talk around, like salted ice on a pond; they steer clear carefully. Atsushi’s still hot as hell; Tatsuya would still want him if he’d asked. His feelings overall haven’t changed enough to call it out of the question completely. And yet, they’re still too stubborn, still too far; back then it might have worked but now it won’t. Even if there still could be something, it’s better to leave it alone.


	119. susawakasaku, afraid

Wakamatsu’s a little bit tentative with both of them sometimes, a little unsure in ways Susa didn’t know Wakamatsu knew how to express (of course he’s capable of it; he’s had his moments right from being a first-year, blustery and confident but still not quite certain of his role on the team, not big enough yet to be the center he would someday become and sticking to the wing, just a temporary stop on the way that he hadn’t quite adjusted to before he got big enough and their older forwards graduated; even that had looked different on him, although it was a long time ago, Susa supposes).   
  
“What are you afraid of?” Susa asks him, and Wakamatsu looks at him like he’s feeling awfully guilty.  
  
He runs his hand over his hair. “That you two get tired of me. You know, I can be.”  
  
He can be loud, obnoxious, a handful—like Susa and Sakurai aren’t. Susa ruffles his air up again and leans over to kiss his mouth. “Nah. Never.”  
  
“We’re better than that,” Sakurai announces, flopping down next to Wakamatsu and tucking himself under Wakamatsu’s arm.  
  
It’s pretty fucking cute, Sakurai with his lip jutting out like it is too often over the smallest slights (or something that isn’t a slight at all in the first place), Wakamatsu with his cheeks slightly pink, his arm falling so naturally as a weight on Sakurai’s shoulders. Sakurai reaches for Susa’s hand and Susa gives it without question, without thought or hesitation. Sakurai’s grip is strong, warm; Susa smiles at him.  
  
“Yeah, we are,” says Wakamatsu, echoing Susa’s smile.  
  
Confidence has never been one of Wakamatsu’s issues; it’s never been a problem for any of them. They’d all gone to Touou, after all, a place that shows no mercy and lets no one who’s all that easily intimidated stick out more than a week, ruthless but rewarding. It’s not the best fit for everyone, not for those who need to be coaxed out of their shells, given patience and a long lead. And in some respects, maybe they do need those things, with each other, with things apart from the basketball courts. And that’s fine, too; Susa knows how to give that, how to work with it. But more importantly, he knows how to work with Wakamatsu and Sakurai themselves, as people. They are better than that; that’s something they all know—separately, but stronger together.


	120. kagakisehimu, when we fight

The house goes quiet when they fight. It’s the things from the past, bubbling up between Taiga and Tatsuya that do it, almost always. There’s tension between the two of them and Ryouta, tension between all of them; this is a rupture, a quick break; there’s never any give and stretch to it when it comes. And then they are quiet, and it is punctured by the hardness in Tatsuya’s posture as he moves back, the tired strain in Taiga’s voice when he says, :Tatsuya, I’m trying; I don’t know what you want me to do.”   
  
He tries not to voice that strain but it still comes back in, creeping up like everything they try to forget and move on from, years and years’ worth. Even if he could cut it out, Tatsuya would probably still hear it; he’d probably still make the same face and pull even farther away, go upstairs without saying anything but leaving an implicit order not to follow him.  
  
Ryouta’s in this, even though he’s not, even though it’s between them and he wasn’t there; they’ve made it his business by getting him involved (more accurately, getting involved with him). And so Taiga can’t blame him when he leaves, slamming the door to make his presence heard, a passive-aggressive way of saying hey, look at me, I’m part of this, too, so don’t make it all about yourselves.  
  
Without him the house is quieter than ever; with the two of them on separate floors it feels like a prison, a sort of limbo they’ve trapped themselves in. They’re not giving, to each other, to themselves. Ryouta’s gone, but Taiga’s had enough of this space; the anger and bitterness transforms to worry all too quickly, worry over whether Tatsuya’s forgiven himself. He finds Tatsuya in the bedroom, hunched on the edge of the bed, the bed that looks too big when he’s alone on the corner like this. They don’t speak their apologies and forgivness; they just sit until Tatsuya can stand it a little better, until they go downstairs to sit again and wait for Ryouta.  
  
One of these times, Taiga thinks, he’s not going to come back. But this time, like all the others before, he hears Ryouta’s car in the driveway, Ryouta’s key in the lock. He sees Ryotua come in, drop next to them exhausted. There are no false promises that it won’t happen again, on any side; there’s only the three of them, hands linked together, resolute.


	121. aokuro, unbroken

It’s not him Tetsu wants. Tetsu thinks he wants Aomine, but the Aomine he wants is the one from back then, back in Teikou, when things were right and Aomine could conceive maybe, in the distance, hovering somewhere, they could have some kind of romantic relationship. It hadn’t been thought concretely, with all those qualifiers, just some vague sort of thing in his mind, in his heart.  
  
He’d be lying if he said he didn’t want it now, though, if he didn’t want Tetsu. He doesn’t want middle school Tetsu, wide-eyed and with a particular conception of the world and basketball. He's the same guy fundamentally, the same love and respect for basketball that had made Aomine fall for him in the first place, but he’s different now. Teikou had changed them all; the years after that have molded him, too, shaped Tetsu into something new, more fully-formed, more attractive to this present Aomine.   
  
“I’m not that guy anymore,” Aomine says.  
  
“Okay,” says Tetsu, and Aomine wonders if he really sees it, if he does—then why he looks at Aomine as if something needs to be fixed.  
  
“I’m not broken,” Aomine says.  
  
It takes a while. Tetsu doesn’t get it at first, not really; even when they play ball together in the park and even when Tetsu watches Aomine from across the court he’s still seeing something else, something he wants to (something he can save). Aomine doesn’t want to keep repeating it out loud, that he’s different, that he doesn’t need saving, because it’s like saying it to a wall. Tetsu won’t get it; keeping things up the same way and repeating himself louder each time won’t do shit.  
  
Aomine’s beginning to think that nothing will.   
  
He gives up too easily, though; he’ll admit it because the reward for being wrong is so damn good (so damn rewarding). They play together again, as Vorpal Swords, against a common foe; they’re on the court again like this, the same guys around them—new people, too, sure, but it’s still too different without that. It’s like playing that game forcibly shoves Tetsu into the future they’re living, into seeing the Aomine that is rather than the one that only lives in his mind now. Kissing him feels right, because he’s kissing Aomine like the guy he is, living in the present.  
  
He doesn’t apologize, but even after he’s changed so much Tetsu’s still Tetsu. And at this point, what’s there left between them to forgive?


	122. murahimu, not really spring

Spring in Akita isn’t really spring, late winter bleeding forward until all of a sudden summer comes, a point Tatsuya’s not going to get to before he leaves. They’ll be lucky if the trees are budding by the first week in April, if the temperature’s consistently above freezing and they can sit outside and eat their lunch on the benches (rolled up sleeves are probably a little bit much to hope for on top of that, but even so). It kind of sucks, to be honest; those are the best parts of the year here and Tatsuya will be back home, which for him is across the world, moving on to something different (not better, nothing could be better than here).  
  
It sucks a lot, actually, because last year he’d still been moody, messy and less self-assured; he and Atsushi had been skirting the edges of being together, still not comfortable eating food out of each other’s bentos, hooking pinkies together under the bible spread across their laps in chapel, kissing quick in the locker rooms and ducking behind an artificial excuse, fucking in Atsushi’s single dorm room when Tatsuya’s supposed to be working on student council stuff.   
  
They won’t get that tiny slice of coupledom, something that’s probably reserved for the pages of fiction, slender heroes of a shoujo manga with a few inches between them in height or sophisticated novel characters who pretend to be a little bit different but are really just a bucket of clichés. Maybe that’s a bad thing to be, but Atsushi hasn’t gotten much of a chance to find out.   
  
Tatsuya’s leaving soon, and that’s really what sucks, because now he’s calmer and more assured, more fitting of the role of captain now that he’s passed it down to Atsushi (who, to be frank, doesn’t know what to do with it, but Tatsuya and Liu had told him to lead by example and that’s something he can do).  
  
“I like you better now,” Atsushi says, which isn’t all of it, is maybe something Tatsuya could misconstrue (like he’s so good at doing, like he loves to do).  
  
Tatsuya laughs, light and not a gentle fake to pass the ball out of his own court, pulls Atsushi down by his tie (one of the few clichés they’ve been allowed, Atsushi supposes).   
  
“I’m glad,” he says, just before their lips meet, just loud enough for Atsushi to hear.


	123. murahimu, hockey au

Murasakibara holds power in his hands, in his blocker, in his glove even without the puck. It’s in his stick, poking a loose puck free, reining it in from behind the net, when he takes a shot in practice and he’s just dicking around, not getting much done but giving their backup goalie a workout. He’s not big on fancy moves, no deking and not much of a maneuver still in his goalie skates. But he’s got power; he’ll skate in and crash the crease (he hates it when other players do it; he doesn’t need his skaters to protect him—Himuro still does, but he’ll take down a skater and get a penalty for it whenever he damn well pleases) and he’ll wind up and take a slapper from the circle, hard enough to make their backup duck sometimes.  
  
But that’s just Atsushi alone. No man is an island; no single player makes a team. He is their strongest player; he is their goalie, the last line of defense, the rock on whose shoulders the game ultimately rests (even if he’s only seeing 25 shots a game, he’s got to stop them; he’s got to let fewer through than they can score). He can’t win every game with a shot from behind the net, a bouncer the opposing goalie can’t handle it. He needs his skaters; as much as he hates to admit it he needs Himuro.  
  
He needs Himuro to score, to make plays, to win the faceoffs in both zones, to start a rally with a smooth shift, cycling the puck down low and taking shots, chipping away at the other goalie’s comfort zone, chirping the other team so hard they get spooked. He needs Himuro; he needs all of the other skaters to be out there, to stop the barrage with their bodies, to take shots with wrists and thighs and stomachs, to get broken sticks and bruised skin, to take those hurt bodies and get the puck forward, out of the zone, into the other net.   
  
It's codependency, necessary, necessary for the power they yield, the blood they smell in the water (literal blood sometimes, the punch Himuro throws to an opponent’s face, the blood from his own knuckles Murasakibara tastes, dry and scraped, when he kisses those beautiful soft hands afterwards). This is what being the Shield of Aegis means. This is their kind of victory.


	124. nijihai, difficult

Shougo is difficult. It’s not something that can be solved, a flaw in his personality that can be filled in with the right glaze and gloss like a crack in an ancient vase. Even if it were, Shuuzou wouldn’t want to do it; if he could change that Shougo wouldn’t be Shougo. And sure, it’s nice when he’s easier; it’s nice when he lets down his guard instead of acting like some kind of wary feral cat about to bite, half-rabid almost, when he’s practically purring in Shuuzou’s arms, like some kind of smug contented creature. It’s worth waiting for, but only because all of the nice things about Shougo, the way he lets Shuuzou in, how special he makes Shuuzou feel even while qualifying that this isn’t a big deal, a terrible pretend act that no one could help but see through, all of that comes from the same thing that makes Shougo difficult in the first place.  
  
Shougo’s not a nice kid; he never was. But Shuuzou’s never laid that expectation down on him, even if perhaps all the way back when Shougo had felt as if he had. There’s a difference between being nice, an honest guy like—well, comparisons are shitty. Shougo deserves better than that, at least from Shuuzou, at least about personal shit. He’d wanted Shougo to act a little less like he was taking things for granted, a little more like he was enjoying himself (because he had been), a little more like everything meant as much to him as it really did. The only thing pushing all of that away, playing it all too cool, did was to make the fall seem easier, make it simpler to play it off when he’d been kicked off the team, like nothing had mattered. At the time, Shuuzou had thought, distantly, that it was a self-fulfilling prophecy.  
  
Now he just regrets not doing anything about it, but there are things Shougo regrets, too. They try not to dwell on them too often.  
  
It’s easy not to think about the past sometimes. They’re different now; Shougo is taller and leaner with darker hair; they’re both less petulant and farther removed from the selves they’d been trying to get away from back then. And they hadn’t had this, the rush of feelings from touching hands, the smile on Shougo’s face when Shuuzou pulls him into a kiss over the kitchen counter, the edge of the granite digging into their stomachs until they’re forced to break away.


End file.
